The stranger across the aisle started violently and looked around.
"That voice!" he muttered.
There was but one being in this world with accents like it, and that was Gerelda Northrup, who lay in her watery grave somewhere in the St. Lawrence River.
Captain Frazier—for it was he—gave another quick glance at the two girls opposite him, and bent forward in his seat, that he might catch a better view of the one nearest him, whose face was averted.
Again she spoke, and this time the accents were more startlingly familiar than ever. Frazier sprang to his feet, walked down to the end of the car, then turned and slowly retraced his steps, watching the girl intently the while.
"I could almost swear that I am getting the tremens again, or that my eyes deceive me," he muttered. "If ever I saw Gerelda Northrup in the flesh, that is she!"
He stopped short, and touched her on the shoulder, his eyes almost bulging from their sockets.
"Miss Northrup— I— I mean Mrs. Varrick—is this you? In the name of Heaven, speak to me!"
She looked at him, her great dark eyes studying his face with a troubled expression.
"Varrick!" she muttered below her breath. "Where have I heard that name before? And your face too! Where have I seen it? It recalls something out of my past life," she muttered.