He rose and walked up and down agitatedly.
“No—no; absolutely not,” he muttered. “It simply can’t be. . . . Why should Von Blon lie to us about her?”
We all knew what was in his mind. Even Heath sensed it at once, for, though he did not speak German, the titles of the two German books—especially the latter—needed no translation to be understood. Hysteria and twilight sleep! Hysterical paralysis and somnambulism! The gruesome and terrible implication in these two titles, and their possible relation to the sinister tragedies of the Greene mansion, sent a chill of horror over me.
Vance stopped his restless pacing and fixed a grave gaze on Markham.
“This thing gets deeper and deeper. Something unthinkable is going on here.—Come, let us get out of this polluted room. It has told us its gibbering, nightmarish story. And now we will have to interpret it—find some glimmer of sanity in its black suggestions.—Sergeant, will you draw the curtains while I straighten these books? We’d best leave no evidence of our visit.”
CHAPTER XIX.
Sherry and Paralysis
(Wednesday, December 1; 4.30 p. m.)
When we returned to Mrs. Greene’s room the old lady was apparently sleeping peacefully and we did not disturb her. Heath gave the key to Nurse O’Brien with instructions to replace it in the jewel-case, and we went down-stairs.
Although it was but a little past four o’clock, the early winter twilight had already descended. Sproot had not yet lighted the lamps, and the lower hall was in semidarkness. A ghostly atmosphere pervaded the house. Even the silence was oppressive, and seemed fraught with the spirit of commination. We went straight to the hall table where we had thrown our coats, eager to get out into the open air.
But we were not to shake the depressing influence of the old mansion so quickly. We had scarcely reached the table when there came a slight stirring of the portières of the archway opposite to the drawing-room, and a tense, whispered voice said: