my love,” I answered. “But remember what a large sum it is. Would you like it all to go to Miss Halcombe?”
She hesitated; her colour came and went, and her hand stole back again to the little album.
“Not all of it,” she said. “There is some one else besides Marian----”
She stopped; her colour heightened, and the fingers of the hand that rested upon the album beat gently on the margin of the drawing, as if her memory had set them going mechanically with the remembrance of a favourite tune.
“You
that the boy saw in the churchyard he called it ‘a woman in white.’”
“Not Anne Catherick?”
“Yes, Anne Catherick.”
She put her hand through my arm and leaned on it heavily.
“I don’t know why,” she said in low tones, “but there is something in this suspicion of yours that seems to startle and