Silence for a quarter of a minute; then a swish as of garments agitated by some swift motion; then Annette's well-remembered contralto voice of a boy—Annette's voice, which had spoken such things to him—
"Robert, dearest, I have come again. Robert, I keep for you out here the little ring. Robert, we will be happy!"
And the voice of a man, sobbing and breaking between the exclamatives:
"My little Lallie—Dear Helen—how long I've waited—sweetheart—how many years!"
And the voice of Annette.
"Only a few more years to wait, dearest—and now that you have faith, I can come to you sometimes—but, oh, dearest, I foresee a danger—a great danger!"
Ten minutes later, Rosalie tiptoed from the library from which she had observed the seance to the last detail of method, and made her way to the closet wherein she had shut Dr. Blake. She opened the door with all precaution, fumbled, found nothing, whispered. No one answered. At last she stepped within, plugged the keyhole with her key, and lit a match.
The closet was empty.
Rosalie crept upstairs to her own room. When she lit the gas, she was crying softly and—as of old habit under emotional stress—talking to herself under her breath.
"I had to do it," she whispered. "He'd believe nothin' but his eyes!"