ose two points caused her the greatest apprehension. Suppose he had
recognised Krail! Suppose he had overheard that man's demands, and her
defiant refusal, he would surely tell Walter!

She bit her lip, and her white fingers clenched themselves in
desperation.

Why should all this misfortune fall upon her, to wreck her young life?
Other girls were gay, careless, and happy. They visited and motored and
flirted and danced, and went to theatres in town and to suppers
afterwards at the Carlton or Savoy, and had what they termed "a ripping
good time." But to her poor little self all pleasure was debarred. Only
the grim shadows of life were hers.

Her mind had become filled with despair. Why had this great calamity
befallen her? Why had she, by her own action in writing to her lover,
placed herself in that terrible position from which there was no
escape--save by death?

The recollection of the Whispers--those fatal Whispers of
Glencardine--flashed through her distressed mind. Was it actually true,
as the countryfolk declared, that death overtook all those who overheard
the counsels of the Evil One? It really seemed as though there actually
was more in the weird belief than she had acknowledged. Her father had
scouted the idea, yet old Stewart, who had personally known instances,
had declared that evil and disaster fell inevitably upon any one who
chanced to hear those voices of the night.

The recollection of that moonlight hour among the ruins, and the
distinct voices whispering, caused a shudder to run through her. She had
heard them with her own ears, and ever since that moment nothing but
catastrophe upon catastrophe had fallen upon her.

Yes, she had heard the Whispers, and she could not escape their evil
influence any more than those other unfortunate persons to whom death
had come so unexpectedly and swiftly.

A shadow passed the window, causing her to start. The figure was that of
a man. She rose from the piano with a cry, and stood erect, motionless,
statuesque.

CHAPTER XXXIII

IS ABOUT THE MAISON LENARD

The big, rather severely but well-furnished room overlooked the busy
Boulevard des Capucines in Paris. In front lay the great white facade of
the Grand Hotel; below was all the bustle, life, and movement of Paris
on a bright sunny afternoon. Within the room, at a large mahogany table,
sat four grave-faced men, while a fifth stood at one of the long
windows, his back turned to his companions.

Th