"I never heard of such a belief," cried Eliza. "What it is that's thought--leastways, as it has been told to me and my fellow-servant, Phemie--is, that it is her spirit that is in the house, and haunts it."
"Her spirit does haunt it," affirmed poor Susan. "But she is there too."
Eliza felt as if a rush of cold air were passing over her.
"Something wrong was done to her; she was killed in some way; and I'd sooner think it was by a woman than a man," went on Susan, dreamily. "It all happened in the north wing. And then they carried her away for concealment to one of the dark unused rooms in it, and left her there, shut up--perhaps for ever. That's how it must have been."
"Dear me!" gasped Eliza, hardly knowing, in her dismay, whether this was theory or fact.
"And so if you could watch, and come upon any clue, and would kindly bring it to us, me and mother, we'd be ever grateful. Perhaps you know our inn--the 'Leaning Gate'--as you go from here to Nullington."
"Stay a moment," said Eliza, a thought striking her: "does your mother think all this that you've been telling me?--does she want me to watch?"
"Mother does not know I've come to you, or that I've ever had thought of coming, else she might have stopped me," answered the girl candidly, for poor Susan Keen was truth itself. "But she knows Katherine must be in the house, dead or alive; she says that. Good-evening, and thank you, and I'm sorry I startled you."
She walked away at a swift pace. Eliza looked after her for a moment, and then ran home shivering, not daring to glance to the right or to the left.
When the last fine days of autumn were over and the cold weather was fairly set in, Squire Denison had ceased to drive out in his brougham, and was seen no more beyond the suite of rooms that were set apart for his personal use. Early in November, his lawyer, Mr. Daventry, was sent for, and received certain final instructions respecting his will.