thing without proof. Well, he could easily ascertain that
for himself. There would be quite time enough in the morning.

For a long time Henson sat there thinking and smoking, as was his usual
custom. Like other great men, he had his worries and troubles, and that
they were mainly of his own making did not render them any lighter. So
long as Margaret Henson was under the pressure of his thumb, money was no
great object. But there were other situations where money was utterly
powerless.

Henson was about to give it up as a bad job, for tonight at any rate. He
wondered bitterly what his admirers would say if they knew everything. He
wondered--what was that?

Somebody creeping about the house, somebody talking in soft, though
distinct, whispers. His quick ears detected that sound instantly. He
slipped into the hall; Margaret Henson was there, with the remains of
what had once been a magnificent opera-cloak over her shoulders.

"How you startled me!" Henson said, irritably. "Why don't you go to bed?"

Enid, looking over the balustrade from the landing, wondered so also, but
she kept herself prudently hidden. The first words that she heard drove
all the blood from her heart.

"I cannot," the feeble, moaning voice said. "The house is full of ghosts;
they haunt and follow me everywhere. And Chris is dead, and I have seen
her spirit."

"So I'm told," Henson said, with brutal callousness. "What was the
ghost like?"

"Like Chris. All pale and white, with a frightened look on her face. And
she was all dressed in white, too, with a cloak about her shoulders. And
just when I was going to speak to her she turned and disappeared into
Enid's bedroom. And there are other ghosts--"

"One at a time, please," Henson said, grimly. "So Christiana's ghost
passed into her sister's bedroom. You come and sit quietly in the library
whilst I investigate matters."

Margaret Henson complied in her dull, mechanical way, and Enid flew like
a flash of light to her room. Another girl was there--a girl exceedingly
like her, but looking wonderfully pale and drawn.

"That fiend suspects," Enid said. "How unfortunate it was that you
should meet aunt like that. Chris, you must go back again. Fly to your
own room and compose yourself. Only let him see you lying white and still
there, and he must be satisfied."

Chris rose with a shudder.

"And if the wretch offers to touch me," she moaned, "If he does--"

"He will not. He dare not. Heaven hel