MY LADY OF THE SOUTH
eyes glaring out across the library table, and Jean Denslow left alone in the big house to cope with its mystery, the night shadows closing in. The sight of her standing there before me, her slender figure barely perceptible in the gloom, was an appeal irresistible. Whatever of service I could give would be offered with glad heart, while not a thought remained as to my own safety. Instinctively I extended my hand, and, in the sudden response of comradeship, she slipped her own into my grasp, the slight fingers trembling to my touch.
"I—I believe I am actually afraid," she confessed, as if almost ashamed to make such acknowledgment. "I never felt so before, and hardly understand myself. This is so different from a real danger—this—this haunted feeling."
I do not recall what I said, but I know 1 retained her hand in mine, and must have spoken words of encouragement, for when we emerged from that dark hole of a cellar into the narrow hallway, already lighted by a hanging lamp, her eyes were smiling, and the grasp of her fingers had grown firm.
"I shall want weapons, Miss Denslow," I said, as we stood looking up and down the main hall, "for whoever this visitant may prove he will be of flesh and blood, and not impervious to a bullet. You can trust me armed?"
"Oh, yes; I will get your own revolvers. They were left in the library."
She was back in a moment, and I snapped the belt about my waist, feeling renewed confidence as I found both weapons still loaded.
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