hand. Try to figure it out as I could, there seemed to be only one
conclusion, and that was to accept it. What it was that interested
him I did not know, but finally he bent down and sniffed, not at
the scented letter, but at the covering on the dresser. When he
raised his head I saw that he had not been looking at the letter
at all, but at a spot on the cover near it.

"Sn-ff, sn-ff," he sniffed, thoughtfully closing his eyes as if
considering something. "Yes--oil of turpentine."

Suddenly he opened his eyes, and the blank look of abstraction
that had masked his face was broken through by a gleam of
comprehension that I knew flashed the truth to him intuitively.

"Turn out that light in the corridor," he ordered quickly.

Dr. Leslie found and turned the switch. There we were alone, in
the now weird little dressing-room, alone with that horribly
lovely thing lying there cold and motionless on the little white
bed.

Kennedy moved forward in the darkness. Gently, almost as if she
were still the living, pulsing, sentient Blanche Blaisdell who had
entranced thousands, he opened her mouth.

A cry from O'Connor, who was standing in front of me, followed.
"What's that, those little spots on her tongue and throat? They
glow. It is the corpse light!"

Surely enough, there were little luminous spots in her mouth. I