"I know," he interjected quickly.
"But the rest of her poor, thin, emaciated looking body seemed to be so stiff and still, swathed in the long, white grave-clothes—and I can't express to you the sort of growing horror of it all! I knew it was only a few moments, yet it seemed like hours of time. I felt as if I must call out and indeed I did. But before I could go on to utter her name, Miss Farrow spoke to me, my aunt got up from her chair, and Mr. Varick rushed forward! Of course it all happened in much less time than it takes to tell."
She looked at him earnestly. What a kind, dependable face he had!
"Have you, Sir Lyon, any explanation to suggest?" she asked.
"I don't suppose," he said slowly, "that you would accept my explanation, Miss Brabazon."
"I think I would," she said simply. "After what happened that first night I feel that anything is possible. I am sure my dear father's spirit was there."
"I am inclined to think so too. But as to this instance I am not so sure that what you saw was your dead friend. Unless—"
"Unless?" repeated Helen questioningly.
"You told me that during her lifetime you were on the best terms of friendship with this poor lady, and yet that on her dead face there was a look of hatred? How do you account for that?"
He looked questioningly, penetratingly, into the girl's distressed face.