The detective smiled, as if gratified at this praise, then sighed:
“You would not call me brave if you knew all. You could hardly credit it, that a New York detective, in this prosaic nineteenth century, could feel a fear of—the supernatural!”
He paled and shuddered as at some ghastly recollection, then continued:
“I am coward, I confess it, Mr. Beresford. I that never flinched at the sight of danger in mortal shape, have struck my colors and fled from—ghosts!”
“Explain!” cried the young man, anxiously; then seeing the extreme pallor of his visitor, hastily rang for wine. “Drink; you will feel better,” he said.
Landon gulped down half a glass, and the color returned to his pallid face, as he said:
“I have been searching Suicide Place again for Miss Fane.”
“Yes?” eagerly.
“I have not found the missing girl, Mr. Beresford, but I have learned that the gossips of Mount Vernon told the truth when they declared that Suicide Place is haunted by evil spirits!”
Every word dropped separately with awful emphasis, and Landon’s face, white and solemn, with deep, troubled eyes, attested his implicit faith in his own declaration.