"And so—and so," murmured Webber, in a voice trembling with emotion, "and so you don't believe the fellow had come to life at all?"
"Of course not."
"I—I don't know. I've often thought—— Good Lord! what's that?"
The three men were seated near the foot of the casket, Webber having his back turned to it.
At the head of the casket was a window, and this was raised to permit the circulation of fresh air in the interior of the basement.
A lemon-colored curtain was dropped over the window to regulate the force of the wind that came through the aperture.
A sudden and powerful gust came through, and the curtain rustled against the window, making a noise as if somebody's dress was rubbing against the side of a wall. The sound had landed on the sensitive ears of Mr. Webber as if it had come from the coffin.
There was not a soul in the room at the time but the three individuals, and they had been whispering in low tones. It is no wonder, then, that Mr. Webber promptly concluded, from the direction of the noise, that it came from the interior of the coffin, or that the pale glamour which one sees on the faces of painted women under an electric light quickly drove the flush of health from his face.
Then he suddenly turned, half in despair at the thought of seeing some movement in the casket.
He noticed nothing unusual, but for a minute he kept his eyes fastened on the face of the murdered woman, and his imagination, wrought upon by the story he had just heard, led him to believe that her eyes were fixed upon him with a steady and stern expression.