She did not scream; she had passed through too many vicissitudes to betray any fright; she only turned white, and put her hand on the table to steady herself.
“You two men have come here at last, have you? Why do you interfere with me? It’s only a little while I have to stay, and I want peace.”
“Peace only comes with a pure conscience,” said Mr. Burton, sternly. “What are you doing in this house?”
“I know I have no right here; but where else will you let me stay? Not even by his grave—no, not even by his grave! You want to drag me forth before the world, to expose my foolish secret, which I have hidden from everybody—to put me in prison—to murder me! This is the business of you two men; and you have the power, I suppose. I am so poor and friendless it makes me a fit object for your persecution. Well, if you can justify yourselves, do as you will with me!”
She folded her hands, looking us full in the face with eyes which absolutely blazed.
“If you had no guilty secret, why did you fly from friends and enemies? Why did you not seek an interview and explanation which would have been satisfactory to us?” asked Mr. Burton.
“You would not believe me if I told you the reason,” scornfully. “It is not in the minds of men—the gross, suspicious minds of men—to conceive or credit my excuse. I will not make it to such people.”
Really, there was a majesty about the girl which quite awed me. As she confronted us, the undaunted spirit sparkling through her slight, wasted face and form, compelled a sort of acquiescence in me. I was not the one to subdue or handle this powerful nature. Mr. Burton was.
“This is not the proper hour, nor the proper place, to enter into explanations, Miss Sullivan. You must go with me to Mrs. Scott’s cottage; she will care for you until morning, and then we will have a talk together. You will not find me harsh; nor shall I take any step without good cause. All I want is the truth—and that I am bound to have.”
“Let me stay here tonight; I promise you I will not attempt to leave the place. I will wait here until you see fit to come in the morning.”
“I can not; there is too much at stake,” he said, with determination.
“Then let me go and get the child,” she said.
She took up the lamp and we followed her; up and along the garret staircase, mounting the narrow steps which led into the attic. There, upon the pile of mattresses which I have mentioned as lying in the corner, reposed the baby girl before spoken of, sleeping sweetly, as only infancy can rest.
“We were under this when you paid us a visit the other day,” said Leesy, with a sort of bitter smile. “I had hard work to keep baby from crying out. She did make a fuss at last; you said it was a cat.”
“How sound the little creature sleeps,” said the detective. He had a gentle heart, which shrunk from disturbing the slumbering infant.
“It’s too bad to startle her up so,” murmured her nurse.
“Yes, it is. I’ll tell you what we will do. We will lock you up here, and keep guard in the chamber until morning, if that pleases you.”
“I don’t care to take Nora out in the storm.”
“Tell me one thing,” said Mr. Burton, his bright eye fixing itself on her own; “are you the mother of that babe?”
For a moment she answered his look with one of astonishment; then the rosy blood rushed up to neck, cheek and brow—a virgin blush, which showed all the soft and girlish side of her character.
“Am I Nora’s mother?” she repeated. “I thought you knew I was not a married woman.”
The detective stood, a little embarrassed by the perfect simplicity of her reply.
“It is understood to be your deceased cousin’s child—an orphan, I believe,” he said. “Well, Miss Sullivan, we will leave you here, undisturbed, for the remainder of the night.”
We descended to the second floor, turning the key of the little storeroom which enclosed the garret staircase, well satisfied to keep guard until morning, since we had secured the mysterious inmate of the haunted house.
XIII
The Shadow Assumes Shape
We now lighted our lamp, and, finding a light cane sofa in the hall, nearly opposite the locked door, we took seats, and kept ourselves awake by talking. The storm had subsided into the monotonous patter of a steady rain.
“I am surprised,” said Mr. Burton, “that you did not at once comprehend the secret of this house. The moment you spoke the word ‘haunted,’ I knew how our investigations would end. It solved a mystery which has bothered me for some time. I knew that Leesy Sullivan was here, in this vicinity; the exact hiding-place was all I wanted to know; and when you mentioned Moreland villa, I said to myself, ‘that’s it!’ All I was then afraid of was, that she would again elude us, before we could lay hands on her. And in fact,” he added laughingly, “I hardly feel sure of her now. She may sublime through the ceiling before morning.”
“I did not think of her, Mr. Burton; I was quite sure some person was playing some game, either of mischief or worse, about the villa; but how could I be certain, when two thorough daylight examinations failed to reveal anything? There did not seem to be a place at which a person could enter the house; and as for a woman and child being actual inmates, living and subsisting here for weeks—I think nothing but actual proof could have convinced me of the marvel. I am curious to know how she managed it.”
“I ought to have come right here at first,” continued my friend, pursuing his train of thought. “Women are like
