Suddenly the ghastly creature spoke: the first time it had ever opened its lips in all its visitations to Dainty.
"You don't seem glad to see me," it observed, in hoarse, mocking accents that somehow had a familiar ring in her ears.
There flashed over her mind some words that Lovelace Ellsworth had said to her lately:
"I am convinced that the pretended monk is a creature of flesh and blood, and if you could only summon courage to tear away its mask when it calls on you again, you would most likely find beneath it the coarse Sheila Kelly, or very probably one of your malicious cousins. Try it next time, and you will see that I am right, darling."
At sound of that gibing voice, with its oddly familiar ring, a desperate courage came to poor Dainty, and suddenly springing erect on her bed, she made a fierce onslaught on her foe, tearing away in one frantic clutch the ghastly mask, skull-cap, wig, and all, and leaving exposed the astonished features of the coarse Irish woman, Sheila Kelly.
The woman uttered a fierce imprecation in her surprise, recoiling a step, then laughing coarsely:
"What a little wild-cat, to be sure! But why didn't you do it long ago?"
"I never thought of it being you, Sheila Kelly! How could I, when I've seen you lying asleep in my room and the old monk standing by my bed?" faltered Dainty in surprise and bewilderment.
"Och, thin it was Miss Peyton playing the part. Shure, she's as tall as mesilf, and I don't mind satisfyin' yer cur'osity now, seein' as yer'll never git out o' this alive to blow on us!" returned the woman, with cool effrontery.
"What do you mean, Sheila?" cried the young girl in alarm.