3 o’clock in the morning.
I have heard a curious thing. A few minutes ago I woke with a start and lay wondering what had roused me. Then the cry of the cat throbbed from the upper Vale again. The howl rose and fell endlessly, as it seemed, until, while it mounted to a new pitch of despair, it broke off. There has not been the faintest murmur since.
XIX.
The Deathless Arm
October 7. 11.15 A.M.
A Spartan is among us.
Not only did Eve Bartholomew appear this morning at breakfast at the early hour Salt had suggested, but she seemed almost in brighter mood than before, and I can understand how the discovery of Sir Brooke, for better or worse, may have taken a burden from her mind. Still, she is brave, though she spoke with a rather wan utterance, addressing me, who had the fortune to consume porridge next her in the window.
“I had expected it,” she said. “Of course I never could have hinted such a thing before, but I realized that sooner or later such a man as Sir Brooke must fall foul of one of his many enemies.”
I uttered some vague sound.
“Mark my words, Mr. Bannerlee, the villain will be brought to vengeance for that blow! I understand how Miss Lebetwood feels—why, Blenkinson, what’s the matter?”
“N‑nothing, Ma’am. I beg your pardon,” said the butler, who had been fussily arranging the window-shade, and took flight.