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It seemed hours to Rufus Myrthe before his senses steadied themselves; before that weird visitor departed, even as it had come. With the closing of the window, he moved from his place of concealment, and hurried back to his own room. Arrived there, he locked the door and tried to calm his shaken nerves.
Who or what was it that had paid that strange visit to the death-room? Someone who had loved or mourned the dead woman, for grief had been plainly evident. The sad cry, the haunting moan, still wailed through the very nerve-centres of his brain. He tried to reason, to convince himself his fancy had played some trick, but the memory of that cry, the sight of that grotesque, mis-shapen creature, were things too vivid to have been the product of even an over-excited imagination.