For a moment she answered his look with one of astonishment; then the rosy blood rushed up to neck, cheek and brow—a virgin blush, which showed all the soft and girlish side of her character.
“Am I Norah’s mother?” she repeated. “I thought you knew I was not a married woman.”
The detective stood, a little embarrassed by the perfect simplicity of her reply.
“It is understood to be your deceased cousin’s child—an orphan, I believe,” he said. “Well, Miss Sullivan, we will leave you here, undisturbed, for the remainder of the night.”
We descended to the second floor, turning the key of the little store-room which inclosed the garret staircase, well satisfied to keep guard until morning, since we had secured the mysterious inmate of the haunted house.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE SHADOW ASSUMES SHAPE.
We now lighted our lamp, and, finding a light cane sofa in the hall, nearly opposite the locked door, we took seats, and kept ourselves awake by talking. The storm had subsided into the monotonous patter of a steady rain.
“I am surprised,” said Mr. Burton, “that you did not at once comprehend the secret of this house. The moment you spoke the word ‘haunted,’ I knew how our investigations would end. It solved a mystery which has bothered me for some time. I knew that Leesy Sullivan was here, in this vicinity; the exact hiding-place was all I wanted to know; and when you mentioned Moreland villa, I said to myself, ‘that’s it!’ All I was then afraid of was, that she would again elude us, before we could lay hands on her. And in fact,” he added laughingly, “I hardly feel sure of her now. She may sublime through the ceiling before morning.”
“I did not think of her, Mr. Burton; I was quite sure some person was playing some game, either of mischief or worse, about the villa; but how could I be certain, when two thorough daylight examinations failed to reveal any thing? There did not seem to be a place at which a person could enter the house; and as for a woman and child being actual inmates, living and subsisting here for weeks—I think nothing but actual proof could have convinced me of the marvel. I am curious to know how she managed it.”
“I ought to have come right here at first,” continued my friend, pursuing his train of thought. “Women are like mother-birds, when boys approach the nest. They betray themselves and their cherished secret by fluttering about the spot. If this Miss Sullivan had been a man, she would have been in Kansas or California by this time; being a woman, I ought to have looked for her in exactly the place it would seem natural for her to avoid. One thing is certain—she loved young Moreland with an intensity beyond the strength of most women. I have had to do with natures like hers before—where a powerful brain is subservient to a still more powerful emotional force. She was proud, ambitious, discontented, with tastes and perceptions reaching up into a much higher sphere of life. Miss Sullivan would have made a magnificent heiress and pet daughter; yet in love she would be humble, self-abnegating—give all and count it nothing. It’s a sad pity such a capacity for happiness should have brought only ruin.”