As the click of the latch reached her, Kathleen, seeing that she was alone, leaned over and put out the light. The darkness was pleasant to her, and she buried her hot hands under her pillows, the better to feel the cool linen. Soothed by its contact she struggled to reduce her chaotic thoughts to order. Sinclair Spencer had left her money—Sinclair Spencer had left her money—the sentence beat in her brain tirelessly. The idea was as repugnant to her as his personality had been. In life he had plagued her, and in death he had involved her in conspiracy and subjected her to cruel suspicion.
Her father's illness has aroused her from the torpor following Charles Miller's departure the night before. She writhed even at the recollection of her scene with him. Again and again she had been on the point of sending for the police and denouncing him, but remembrance of the forty-eight hours of grace which she had granted him stayed her impulse.
He had killed every spark of affection, she assured herself repeatedly; and then turned and tossed upon her pillows as vivid recollection painted each happy hour with him that winter.
A moan broke from her, and at the sound a stealthy figure advancing from the sitting-room adjoining, stopped dead. Hearing no further sound, the intruder moved cautiously forward and bent over Kathleen.
"Mademoiselle!"
Kathleen's eyes flew open. "Julie! You have come back!"
"Hush, mademoiselle! Not so loud," and Julie, dropping on her knees by the bed, laid a warning finger on Kathleen's lips. Reaching out her hands, the latter clasped the Frenchwoman in a warm embrance, which was as warmly returned.
"You have come back," she repeated in a whisper. "Julie, you met with no harm?"
"No, mademoiselle."
"Where have you been?"