“Yes, Constance, Mrs. Allen is dead. Her spirit had passed away before my arrival.”
“How did she die?—from what cause?”
“From what I can learn she died in a fit of passion.” I then related all that I had seen and heard.
“But who can they be?” This query came as a natural sequence. “What right have they in the Allen House?”
“Whoever they may be,” I replied, “they act, or, at least, the elder of the two ladies acts as if her right there was not even open to a question. And, perhaps, it is not.”
“But what can they be to the Allens?”
“I will give you,” said I, “the benefit of my guessing on the subject. You recollect the story told about Captain Allen's mother; how she went off a great many years ago with a stranger—an Englishman.”
Constance remembered all about this family history, for it was the romance of our town.
“My conclusion is that this lady is the sister of Captain Allen—the child that his mother took with her when she fled from her husband's house. I am strengthened in this belief from the first impression of her voice, as if the tones had in them something familiar.”
We talked this matter over, looking at it in every way, until we satisfied ourselves that my conjectures must be true. The quiet manner in which they had intruded themselves, and taken possession of the house—unheralded as far as we knew—could not but present itself to our minds as a matter of special wonder. The more we conned it over the more we were puzzled. Before coming home I had called at an undertaker's, and notified him that his services were wanted at the Allen House. Early on the next day I took the liberty of calling there myself. I sent up my name, and awaited, with some interest, my reception. The visit might be regarded as an intrusion, and I was prepared to receive a message from the lady asking to be excused. Not so, however. I had been seated only a few moments, when I heard the rustle of her garments on the stairs. My first glance at her face assured me that I was no unwelcome visitor.