"Who are you?" he repeated firmly.
"You are not the one I seek," she answered. "Why do you keep me from
him? He is mine--my very own. Where is he? I am always seeking for
him--but he is like the shadows--he vanishes--with the sunshine. In my
dreams I see him--" Her voice, thin and low-pitched, died into
silence. She seemed to have shrunk together; she swayed as though she
would have fallen, and Travers took an involuntary step toward her.
"You speak English--perfect English," he said. "Who are you? Whom do
you seek? Perhaps I can help you--?" His words electrified her. She
caught his arm in a grip of iron and drew close to him so that her
hot, quickly drawn breath fanned his cheek.
"Help me?" she whispered. "Who can help me? Don't you know that I am
dead?"
Travers shuddered; he tried to free himself from the clutch of the
white, bloodless hand, but she clung to him desperately, despairingly,
while her voice rose in an agonized crescendo.
"Don't you know that I am _dead?_"
Footsteps came hurrying down the corridor. A sudden impulse, a
reawakening of the spirit of action and enterprise, which had carried
him through his life, bade him grasp her hand and drag from it the
loosely fitting ring.
"I will see you again--dead or living, I will help you," he said.
The next instant he drew quickly back. A white-bearded native servant
had entered and was moving swiftly with cat-like stealth toward the
veiled figure by the window.
Pages:
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165