"An odd sort of sound, almost like--the flapping of wings."

I saw that she had turned pale, I saw the confirmation of something
which I had only partly realised before: that her life at Cray's Folly
was a constant fight against some haunting shadow. Her gaiety, her
lightness, were but a mask. For now, in those wide-open eyes, I read
absolute horror.

"Miss Beverley," I said, grasping her hand reassuringly, "you alarm me.
What has made you so nervous to-night?"

"To-night!" she echoed, "to-night? It is every night. If you had not
come--" she corrected herself--"if someone had not come, I don't think
I could have stayed. I am sure I could not have stayed."

"Doubtless the attempted burglary alarmed you?" I suggested, intending
to sooth her fears.

"Burglary?" She smiled unmirthfully. "It was no burglary."

"Why do you say so, Miss Beverley?"

"Do you think I don't know why Mr. Harley is here?" she challenged.
"Oh, believe me, I know--I know. I, too, saw the bat's wing nailed to
the door, Mr. Knox. You are surely not going to suggest that this was
the work of a burglar?"

I seated myself beside her on the settee.