“Oh!” he said incredulously. “You—you mean the messages came from a dead man?”
“Yes,” Helen said assuredly.
Pryde’s relief was so great that he could scarcely control it or himself. He felt faint and sick with elation, and presently he broke into hysterical laughter. It was the second time he had laughed so in this room.
Helen regarded him offendedly. Indeed, feeling as she felt, and at stake what she had at stake, his mirth was offensive. But the boisterous merriment was his safety-valve.
When he was able to check himself, and he did as soon as he could, he said, more affectionately than superiorly,
“Helen, surely you can’t be serious?”
“I am,” she answered curtly. She was indignant.
“But,” Stephen persisted, “you can’t believe such preposterous nonsense. A message from the dead! It’s too absurd!”
“You will see that it is not,” the girl told him coldly.
“I shall have to wait a long time for that, I am afraid,” he returned patronizingly. He was quite himself now. He rose carelessly and strolled to the writing-table. But as he went the menace that still threatened him reasserted itself in his mind. He turned again to Helen. “And this message from the dead, as you call it, is your only reason for believing that there was some evidence in this room that would clear Hugh?”