Edgeworth Bess wore a scarlet tabby negligée,—a sort of undress, or sack, then much in vogue,—which suited her to admiration, and upon her head had what was called a fly-cap, with richly-laced lappets. The pieces fell to the ground in a little white shower. ‘No, let me guess,’ he interrupted. I am used, you understand, to guard my secret. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. “I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest. ” Lucy looked at the small shelf which was jammed with thick paperbacks by every major horror novelist of the twentieth century.
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