"I've only been here a week. I haven't seen much of her. She's only been to meals once or twice, and then she's scarcely said a word."
She glanced about the room with its small paned windows, its deep embrasures, its shallow ceiling.
"It isn't that," she whispered. "It's because the house is full of queer things. The servants all felt it. They talked about spirits and left. Five have come and gone in the week I've been here. But I've never been superstitious, and I didn't hear anything until last night."
Garth stirred.
"What did you hear? When was it?"
"About midnight," she answered tensely. "I had had company in the kitchen until then, so I was alone downstairs. McDonald had told me before he went to bed to make sure the last thing that the library fire was all right. I had looked at it and had put the fender up and was just leaving the room when I heard this sound—like moans, sir. I—I've never heard such suffering."
She shuddered.
"It was like a voice from the grave—like somebody trying to get out of the grave."
"But you heard no shot?"
"No, sir."