"It's his livin' image, mum," said the talking statue.
"You can go, Barlow."
"Yes, mum," said Barlow, already gone.
The woman sat alone in the fading light, the picture still before her. Suddenly she started, started as violently, almost, as if the dead face before her had broken into speech. Again the bell awoke the echoes of the lonely house, and again the servant stalked like a shadow to the door.
"Barlow, what did Dr. Wallis say was that young man's name?"
"I couldn't say, mum," answered Barlow, with the air of one who has been charged with murder. Even in the shadow he noticed the whiteness of the lips that questioned him.
"Well, find it out then," she exclaimed, her voice rising as she half rose in her chair—"find it out, I say. What do you suppose you're here for, if it's not to know who's in the house?"
"Yes, mum," Barlow responded, his tone now the tone of the convicted.
"Never mind that—go and find out the name. Tell him we'll need to know when the postman brings the letters—tell him anything—go now," as the menial vanished in the direction of Harvey's room.
It was but a moment till he was back. "It's Simmons, mum—he says it's Simmons."