Her eyes caught sight of some written documents lying out-spread on the table a little distance away. The temptation was too much for her. Still on tiptoe, she crossed to the table in order to examine them. But hardly had she stooped over the table when the same hollow voice that had sounded in her ears the previous night spoke to her again, and froze her to the spot where she was standing. “Fanny McDermott, you must get away from this house,” said the voice. “If you stop here you will be a dead woman in three months!”
She was too terrified to look round or even to stir, but her trembling lips did at last falter out the words: “Who are you?”
The answer came. “I am your husband, Geoffrey. Be warned in time.”
Then there was silence, and in a minute or two the widow ventured to look round. There was no one there except Mr. Bristow, fast asleep. She managed to reach the door without disturbing him, and from thence made the best of her way to her own room.
Two hours later Tom was encountered by the Squire. The latter was one broad smile. “She’s going at last,” he said. “Off to-morrow like a shot. Just told me.”
“Then, with your permission, I won’t dine with you this evening. I don’t want to see her again.”
“But how on earth have you managed it?” asked the Squire.
“By means of a little simple ventriloquism—nothing more. But I see her coming this way. I’m off.” And off he went, leaving the Squire staring after him in open-mouthed astonishment.
CHAPTER VIII.
DIRTY JACK.
There was one thing that puzzled both General St. George and Lionel Dering, and that was the persistent way in which Kester St. George stayed on at Park Newton. It had, in the first place, been a matter of some difficulty to get him to Park Newton at all, and for some time after his arrival it had been evident to all concerned that he had made up his mind that his stay there should be as brief as possible. But after that never-to-be-forgotten night when the noise of ghostly footsteps was heard in the nailed-up room—a circumstance which both his uncle and his cousin had made up their minds would drive him from the house for ever—he ceased to talk much about going away. Week passed after week and still he stayed on. Nor could his uncle, had he been desirous of doing so, which he certainly was not, have hinted to him, even in the most delicate possible way, that his room would be more welcome than his company, after the pressure which he had put upon him only a short time previously to induce him to remain.