Now, Elijah Callister did not believe in ghosts.
Search the length and breadth of New York City over, and in all probability no less superstitious man than the stock broker himself could have been found.
He shook the latch fiercely.
It had not been disturbed—there could be no doubt of that.
No other means of entrance to the chamber existed save by one of the windows, forty feet from the ground, at least.
A strange sense of fear seemed to creep over him—a tightness about the heart.
There lay his villainous companion stretched senseless upon the floor.
Neither window could have been approached without passing directly by the place where the man lay, where he himself had stood.
And yet the appearance had been a reality.
The figure of Mrs. Marley had advanced from behind the broken bedstead, whose high headboard offered an effective shield to the movements of any object behind it, had moved forward across the room, and retreated in the direction from whence it came.