She was strangely beautiful in her pallor and pain, and Alva thought for a moment how strange it was that her brother had not loved charming Maybelle before he met Floy.
But in the next moment she sighed to herself:
“There is no accounting for Love’s vagaries. I am glad my brother loved little Floy instead of imperious Maybelle.”
Beresford looked at the poor girl with pitying eyes. The knowledge of her hopeless love for himself softened his heart, and he said, gently:
“Why did you attempt this terrible deed? What malign influence drove you to self-murder?”
She shuddered and closed her eyes. He thought she was going to faint again, and reproached himself for tormenting her by such questions.
But Maybelle opened her eyes again, and said, solemnly:
“I will tell you the grim secret of Suicide Place, for perhaps I am dying, and the story should be known, and the old building torn down to set at rest an unquiet spirit. Floy knows it all, I am sure, but I do not think she would ever tell.”
“You may exhaust yourself,” he objected, though his curiosity was on the qui vive.
“No; I shall not talk more than is necessary.” She swallowed some more wine held to her lips by his hand, and began: “Perhaps you have heard that the owners of this property—Floy’s ancestors—were very rich long ago?”