en him for twenty years; and I have told you that the man you know
as Henry LaSalle is an impostor--I am using the word 'uncle' now when I
refer to him simply to avoid confusion. You are, perhaps, expecting
me to say that I took a distinctive dislike to him from the moment he
arrived? On the contrary, I had every reason to be predisposed toward
him; and, indeed, was rather agreeably surprised than otherwise--he was
not nearly so uncouth and unpolished as, somehow, I had pictured his
life would have made him. Do you understand, Jimmie? He was kind,
sympathetic; and, in an apathetic way, I liked him. I say 'apathetic'
because I think that best describes my own attitude toward every one and
everything following father's death until--THAT NIGHT."

She rose abruptly from her chair, as though a passive position of any
kind had suddenly become intolerable.

"Why tell you what my father and I were to each other!" she cried out
in a low, passionate voice. "It seemed as though everything that meant
anything had gone out of my life. I became worn out, nervous; and though
the days were bad enough, the nights were a source of dread. I began
to suffer from insomnia--I could not sleep. This was even before my
supposed uncle came. I used to read for hours and hours in my room
after I had gone to bed. But"--she flung out her hand with an impatient
gesture--"there is no need to dwell on that. One night, about a week
after that man had arrived, and a little over a month after father had
died, I was in my room and had finished a book I was reading. I remember
that it was well after midnight. I had not the slightest inclination
to sleep. I picked up another book--and after that another. There were
plenty in my room; but, irrationally, of course, none pleased me. I
decided to go down to the library--not that I think I really expected
to find anything that I actually wanted, but more because it was an
impulse, and furnished me for the moment with some definite objective,
something to do. I got up, slipped on a dressing gown, and went
downstairs. The lights were all out. I was just on the point of
switching on those in the reception hall, when suddenly it seemed as
though I had not strength to lift my hand, and I remember that for an
instant I grew terribly cold with dread and fear. From the room on my
right a voice had reached me. The door was closed, but the voice was
raised in an outburst of profanity. I--I could hear every word.

"'If sh