of that family peculiarity. It ran through the house, she said. But
my hand was quite different: not the Moore type at all: I supposed I
must have taken it, as was natural, from the Callinghams.

And then, in my utter horror and loneliness, a still more awful and
ghastly thought presented itself to me. This was my mother's hand I
saw in the picture. Was it my mother, indeed, who wrought the
murder? Was she living or dead? Had my father put upon her some
grievous wrong? Had he pretended to get her out of the way? Had he
buried her alive, so to speak, in some prison or madhouse? Had she
returned in disguise from the asylum or the living grave to avenge
herself and murder him? In my present frame of mind, no idea was too
wild or too strange for me to entertain. If this strain continued
much longer, I should go mad myself with suspense and horror!






CHAPTER X.

YET ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH





Next morning my head ached. After all I'd suffered, I could hardly
bear to recur to the one subject that now always occupied my