CHAPTER XXIII. “YOU WICKED, WICKED GIRL!” CRIED THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR.

Otho Maury received no answer to the letter he so artfully sent to St. George Beresford.

But he had not expected a reply. He knew that the blow must fall with too crushing a weight on the lover’s heart to admit of comment, and he knew also that Beresford would never forgive him for his offense against Floy.

He gave up the quest for the missing girl after two weeks, and went back to Mount Vernon distracted with doubt and fear.

“I am all at sea,” he confessed, frankly, to Maybelle, who grew pale with anger as she cried:

“You have failed!”

“Yes, I have failed. There is no clew to her disappearance. She may possibly be dead, but the probabilities are that, frightened by my persecution, she has hidden herself away from all who know her to baffle persecution until Beresford’s return. Let us hope that she is dead.”

“She is not dead. She will live to thwart all our hopes!” cried his sister, furiously.

Springing to her feet, she stood before him, livid with emotion, hissing:

“Oh, how I hate that girl! I wish that I had killed her last night when I had her in my power!”

“Last night, Maybelle! Why, what do you mean?” he exclaimed in wonder, clutching her arm and forcing her back to a seat.

Maybelle leaned back panting and unnerved for a moment, then cried, bitterly:

“I was a fool to be frightened and take her for a ghost!”

“Calm yourself, Maybelle, and tell me what you mean,” Otho insisted, excitedly.

Fixing her flashing eyes on his face, she said, hoarsely:

“Do you know that all the talk for several days has been that Floy’s ghost has been seen several times in Mount Vernon in the past two weeks?”

“No--no.”

“Well, it is true, Otho. She has been seen three times, they say, by towns-people, twice on foot, and one night on her bicycle. But when spoken to, she did not reply, and vanished like a spirit. So they say that she is surely dead.”

He started, and his eyes flashed as he cried:

“But you, Maybelle?--you said you saw her last night! Where?”

“Here, Otho, in this very house!”

“Heavens! then she must be in collusion with Mrs. Banks.”

“No, she is not. The woman firmly believes that her _protégée_ is dead.”

“Then tell me all. Do you not see how impatient you have made me with your mysterious hints?”

She leaned nearer to him and whispered, hoarsely:

“She was here in this house at midnight last night. I was lying asleep on my bed. The windows were raised, for the air was oppressively warm. Then, too, I liked to smell the mingled odors of rose and honeysuckle clambering up the trellis. It was clear, bright moonlight, so I extinguished my lamp when I retired.”

“Yes, yes; go on, Maybelle!” breathed Otho, impatiently.

“I fell asleep, and rested calmly until about midnight, when I awakened in a fright, for some one was shaking me rudely.

“‘Get up--get up, Maybelle Maury! I want the letters my lover wrote me--the letters you have stolen!’ cried an angry voice.

“I started bolt upright in bed, frightened almost to death, and half-dazed by being so suddenly roused from sleep, and there before me was that little vixen Floy, all in ghastly white, her golden hair all in a fluff over her head like a halo. She stood in a patch of white moonlight that made her look ethereal, and in my confusion I really took her for a ghost!”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Otho, impatiently; and Maybelle said, deprecatingly:

“You must remember that I was roused from sleep and taken by surprise, or I should not have been so easily deceived. And she was so imperative, she did not give me time to collect my thoughts, but went on, angrily:

“‘Get up, Maybelle Maury, you wicked, wicked girl, and give me my letters this minute, or I will go to your Mother and tell her how cruelly you and Otho have treated me! You will not enjoy that, for your mother is a good woman; she would be shocked if she knew that you told the postman a lie that you might get my letters and keep them from me.’”

“She did not talk much like a ghost,” interpolated Otho.

“No, she did not, but I was so dazed and frightened I did not realize it then. And the little vixen kept scolding and threatening and pointing her finger at me until I felt like one under a hypnotic spell, and afraid to disobey; so, following the pointing of her finger, I rose from my bed, staggered tremblingly to my desk, and handed her the package of letters I had intercepted. Then, overcome by horror, I fell unconscious upon the bed. When I revived, my midnight visitor had disappeared.”

“It was Floy herself!” declared Otho, with bitter chagrin.

“Yes, I am certain of it--have not doubted it since I came to my sober senses,” answered Maybelle, with a choking sigh of futile rage. “Oh, how I hate myself,” she continued, “for giving her those letters! She is gloating over them--rejoicing at every tender word--while I--I could strangle her with my own hands for her triumph over me!”

“And I!” cried Otho, burning with murderous jealousy at thought of Floy’s innocent joy at the recovery of her love letters.

He could fancy what tender words Beresford would write to his darling, and how her eyes would beam with joy as she read them over.

He felt, like Maybelle, that he would like to strangle the joy in her sweet white throat with murderous hands.