"That is just the question that was on my lips, so nearly uttered that I
consider I spoke first. Now, will you confess, or must I cross-question
some one else? I _will_ know. It is easy to follow you, like an invading
army, by the trail of devastation."

"So you do care to know?" the soft voice said, that could make the
nerves of even an indifferent hearer thrill and quiver strangely.

After once listening to it, it was very easy to believe the weird
stories of Norse sorceresses, and German wood-spirits and pixies, luring
men to death with their fatally musical tones.

"Simple curiosity," Guy replied, coolly, "and a little compassion for
your victims. They might be friends of mine, you know."

Miss Bellasys bit her lip, half provoked, half amused, apparently, as
she answered, "The dead tell no tales."

"No, but the wounded do, and they cry out pretty loudly sometimes. I
suppose all the cases did not terminate fatally. Will you confess?"

"I have nothing to tell you," Flora said, very demurely and meekly,
only for once her eyes betrayed her. "Mamma took me down into
Devonshire, where we have an aunt or two, for sea-breezes and seclusion.
I rather liked at first having nothing on earth to do, and nothing--yes,
I understand--really nothing to think about. I used to sleep a great
deal, and then drive a little obstinate pony, to see views. But I don't
care much about views--do you? Then mamma was always wanting me to help
her look for shells and wild-flowers; and the rocks hurt my feet, and