A voice struck on her ears, sending terror to her heart lest the dead had arisen from his grave in the deserted pit.
“I’ll drive you home, Miss Ellyson!”
Who was this, calling her boldly by name? With a start of terror, she lifted her eyes, and saw a man striding to her through the snow.
She had seen the bold eyes, the coarse, good-looking face before. It was Carey Doyle.
“How came you here?” she faltered fearfully, and he answered coolly:
“I was cutting across fields visiting some country friends of mine when I saw you upset, and hastened to your assistance. Who was the man you pushed over into the pit, Miss Ellyson? Surely not Frank Laurier?”
Her heart sank with wild alarm as she answered faintly:
“You—you—are mistaken. I—I—came—here alone, I swear. I was only—only—looking down into the pit thinking how terrible if the sleigh had overset down there!”
“Miss Ellyson, I saw you dragging the man over there by his arms—don’t deny it,” Doyle returned masterfully.
She was detected, she realized it, and began to sob hysterically: