“Yes,” she replied. “I noticed it when we started. It hardly shows at all now.”
“Well, its cause is quite inexplicable—a mystery,” I said. “I am in no way superstitious, and I am no believer in the supernatural, but in that inn at Arnay-le-Duc there is a Something—something uncanny. I was sound asleep when, just before night gave place to day, a cold hand touched my cheek—a phantom hand that left the mark which you see?”
“A hand?” she gasped, staring at me, her lips pale and cheeks suddenly blanched. “Explain it. I—I can’t understand.”
“I awoke quickly at the chill death-like contact, and saw the hand a few inches from my face—thin, claw-like, and yet a dark shadowy phantom which disappeared in an instant, even before I, so suddenly awakened, could realise what it actually was. But it was a hand—of that I am absolutely positive.”
“Yes,” she said slowly, in a low, hoarse voice, nodding her head and pausing as though reflecting deeply. “Yes, Mr Kemball, you were not mistaken. I—I, too, strangely enough, had a very similar experience about six weeks ago, while staying up at Scarborough with Louise Oliver, an old schoolfellow of mine. I, too, saw the terrible Thing—the Hand!”
“You!” I gasped, staring at her. “You have seen it!”
In response she nodded, her eyes set straight before her, but no word escaped her white, pent-up lips.