“She did not talk much like a ghost,” interpolated Otho.
“No, she did not, but I was so dazed and frightened I did not realize it then. And the little vixen kept scolding and threatening and pointing her finger at me until I felt like one under a hypnotic spell, and afraid to disobey; so, following the pointing of her finger, I rose from my bed, staggered tremblingly to my desk, and handed her the package of letters I had intercepted. Then, overcome by horror, I fell unconscious upon the bed. When I revived, my midnight visitor had disappeared.”
“It was Floy herself!” declared Otho, with bitter chagrin.
“Yes, I am certain of it—have not doubted it since I came to my sober senses,” answered Maybelle, with a choking sigh of futile rage. “Oh, how I hate myself,” she continued, “for giving her those letters! She is gloating over them—rejoicing at every tender word—while I—I could strangle her with my own hands for her triumph over me!”
“And I!” cried Otho, burning with murderous jealousy at thought of Floy’s innocent joy at the recovery of her love letters.
He could fancy what tender words Beresford would write to his darling, and how her eyes would beam with joy as she read them over.
He felt, like Maybelle, that he would like to strangle the joy in her sweet white throat with murderous hands.
CHAPTER XXIV.
“A ROYAL ROAD TO FORTUNE.”
“I am sorry now that I did not follow my first impulse and burn those hateful letters!” cried Maybelle regretfully.