"By-the-bye, is Miss Latouche still staying here?" I presently inquired in as calm a voice as I could command.
"No, she left suddenly the day after your accident. She complained of feeling upset by the affair, and wished to go home. We did not press her to stay, as she is liable to nervous attacks which are rather alarming. Why, that very night, curiously enough, I met her evidently walking in her sleep down the passage as I rushed out at your shout. She passed quite close to me without making any sign, and was quite unconscious of it next day—in fact referred with some surprise to having slept all through the row."
"Has she always had these peculiar ways?" I asked with interest.
"Well, I always thought her an imaginative, fanciful sort of girl, but she has certainly been much worse since that poor fellow's death. What, you never heard the story? It was at a picnic, and she insisted upon his climbing some rocks to get her a certain flower, just for the sake of giving trouble, as girls do. The poor lad's foot slipped, and he rolled right over a precipice and was dashed to pieces. Of course it was a shocking thing, but it's a pity she became so morbid about it, as no real blame attached to her. Now I must not talk too much or the doctor will say I have tired you; so good-bye for the present."
And that was the last I heard of Irene Latouche.
