Paul Linmere left the rooms of
the Club at about three o'clock in the morning, to return home. His way
lay along the most deserted part of the city--a place where there were
few dwellings, and the buildings were mostly stores and warehouses.
Suddenly a touch on his arm stopped him. The same cold, deathly touch he
had felt once before. He had drank just enough to feel remarkably brave,
and turning, he encountered the strangely gleaming eyes that had frozen
his blood that night in early summer. All his bravado left him. He felt
weak and helpless as a child.
"What is it? what do you want?" he asked brokenly.
"Justice!" said the mysterious presence.
"Justice? For whom?"
"Arabel Vere."
"Arabel Vere! Curse her!" he cried, savagely.
The figure lifted a spectral white hand.
"Paul Linmere--beware! The vengeance of the dead reaches sometimes unto
the living! There is not water enough in the Seine to drown a woman's
hatred! Death itself cannot annihilate it! Beware!"
He struck savagely at the uplifted hand, but his arm met no resistance.
He beat only against the impalpable air. His spectral visitor had flown,
and left nothing behind her to tell of her presence.
With unsteady steps Mr. Paul Linmere hurried home, entered his room, and
double-locked the door behind him.
Pages:
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61