Ellen drew back. “Let us go, let us go,” she said.
At that moment a series of soft double-knocks, as if made by two knuckles of a gloved hand, sounded all about us,—under the pavement, on the roof, on the stall.
“There’s yer change.—I’ve a message for you,” suddenly facing Ellen; “there’s a spirit here to speak to you.”
“He is dead, then?” catching both hands together as if to support herself.
The woman took down a greasy card, on which the alphabet was printed, from a nail where it hung, and ran her pencil lightly along it, as the raps continued in swift, soft succession. She spelled out this message:—
“I think of you here. Of you and Joe. You will come to me.”
“Where—how was it done?” I cried.
The woman glanced at Ellen, who leaned against the edge of the block.
“I was murdered; drugged and murdered,” was the answer.
“He is dead. There is no chance any more.” That was all she said, with a strange inconsistency, forgetting her anger of the other day. “There is no chance, no chance,” I heard her mutter, as we went back to the boat; “he’s gone now.”