“You might find Mrs. Hawthorne for me,” the investigator said in jest.
In the darkened room, Father Benedict’s hooded face looked grotesque as light from the tall tapers flickered upon his angular jaw bones.
The moment was impressive. A tomb-like silence had fallen upon the three, and the only sound was the crackle of the fire.
Then, quite suddenly, Penny was certain she heard another noise. Though the occasion should not have been one for alarm, she felt her skin prickle. A tiny chill caused her to shiver.
Or was it a chill? Against her cheek she felt a breath of icy wind. Somewhere beyond the room a door had opened. Unmistakably, she heard the creak of old wood.
Penny’s startled gaze roved to Mr. Ayling. Oblivious to all else, the investigator was watching Father Benedict closely.
Every sense now alert, the girl listened intently. Had someone stepped on a loose board as he crept along the passageway? Or had she merely heard the old house groaning to itself?
The creaking sound was not repeated.
Trying to throw off the pall which had fallen upon her, Penny centered her full attention upon the monk. As one hypnotized by the glass into which he peered, he mumbled words difficult to understand.
“Now the ball is clearing,” he muttered. “What is this? I see a resort city on the sea coast—the rush and roar of waves. Ah, a beach! On the sand are two bathers—one a girl of perhaps sixteen or seventeen with dark hair. She wears a green bathing suit. Upon her third finger is a black cameo ring.”