"Eh?" Savell stared at him, with a frightened look on his face. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that the lady has taken matters into her own hands, and has run away with that scoundrelly half-brother of mine—young Millard," said Olivant slowly. "He's been hanging about here for a long time—before ever he came to dinner at all—and I've been afraid that something of this sort would happen. It's a pity; because I had a better fate in store for the girl, as you know."
"Yes—yes—of course I know that," said Savell feebly. "But can't they be stopped?—can't something be done?"
"I intend to do something—to-morrow," said Olivant. "It's too late to do anything to-night," he added, glancing at his watch. "Make your mind easy, my friend; I'll see that sweet Barbara comes to no harm. And if by any chance young Millard should come here, you'll understand that that's only a ruse on his part, to throw you off the scent. You'll very properly have him kicked out of the house."
I had been so intent upon what was happening in the room, and upon the words that passed between the two men, that I had been totally unaware of the fact that once again, as on another night I remembered, a shadow had detached itself from the shadows of the garden, and that what seemed to be a woman was leaning forward eagerly at the further end of the terrace, watching and listening. She had not seen me; she had crept forward step by step, and was staring into the lighted room. As Murray Olivant moved with a shiver towards the window as if to close it, she dropped back into the shadows, and was gone.
For a moment I stood there, staring after her, and vaguely calling to mind the fashion in which I had seen her before, and the white face I had seen looking into the room. Then, recovering myself, I started off quickly in pursuit—hearing her moving swiftly over the dead leaves on her way out of the grounds. Getting further away from the house, I ventured to call to her to stop; but she hastened on more quickly, breaking at last into a run, and finally disappearing among the trees. I ran on blindly, and just when I thought I had lost her stumbled against a figure standing quite still, and grasped it, and held to it. But this was not a woman; it was a man, who cried out feebly to me to let him go, and struggled in my grasp. It was Jervis Fanshawe.
"Some one ran past you—not a moment ago," I gasped. "A woman."
His face in the moonlight was ghastly white; I felt that he was trembling from head to foot. "Did you see it too?" he gasped, holding to me, and staring into my face.
I nodded. "Yes," I replied quickly. "Who was it?"
He shivered, and covered his face with his hands. "The dead come alive!" he whispered.