"Go to Mrs. Stevens for your
money! Never set foot in Thorpe Place again!" Consumed with
curiosity, I could not help following the woman, and found her round
the corner leaning against the wall and palpitating like a frightened
rabbit. "What is the matter, Mrs. Brown?" I asked. "It's master!" she gasped. "Oh, 'ow 'e frightened me! If you had seen
'is eyes, Mr. Colmore, sir. I thought 'e would 'ave been the death of
me." "But what had you done?" "Done, sir! Nothing. At least nothing to make so much of. Just laid
my 'and on that black box of 'is--'adn't even opened it, when in 'e
came and you 'eard the way 'e went on. I've lost my place, and glad I
am of it, for I would never trust myself within reach of 'im again." So it was the japanned box which was the cause of this outburst--the
box from which he would never permit himself to be separated. What was
the connection, or was there any connection between this and the secret
visits of the lady whose voice I had overheard? Sir John Bollamore's
wrath was enduring as well as fiery, for from that day Mrs. Brown, the
charwoman, vanished from our ken, and Thorpe Place knew her no more. And now I wish to tell you the singular chance which solved all these
strange questions and put my employer's secret in my possession. The
story may leave you with some lingering doubts as to whether my
curiosity did not get the better of my honour, and whether I did not
condescend to play the spy. If you choose to think so I cannot help
it, but can only assure you that, improbable as it may appear, the
matter came about exactly as I describe it. The first stage in this denouement was that the small room in the
turret became uninhabitable. This occurred through the fall of the
worm-eaten oaken beam which supported the ceiling. Rotten with age, it
snapped in the middle one morning, and brought down a quantity of
plaster with it. Fortunately Sir John was not in the room at the time. His precious box was rescued from amongst the debris and brought into
the library, where, henceforward, it was locked within his bureau. Sir
John took no steps to repair the damage, and I never had an opportunity
of searching for that secret passage, the existence of which I had
surmised. As to the lady, I had thought that this would have brought
her visits to an end, had I not one evening heard Mr. Richards asking
Mrs. Stevens who the woman was whom he had overheard talking to Sir
John in the library. I could not catch her reply, but I saw from her
manner that it was not the first time that she had had to answer or
avoid the same question. "You've heard the voice, Colmore?" said the agent. I confessed that I had. "And what do YOU think of it?" I shrugged my shoulders, and remarked that it was no business of mine. "Come, come, you are just as curious as any of us. Is it a woman or
not?" "It is certainly a woman." "Which room did you hear it from?" "From the turret-room, before the ceiling fell." "But I heard it from the library only last night. I passed the doors
as I was going to bed, and I heard something wailing and praying just
as plainly as I hear you. It may be a woman----"

"Why, what else COULD it be?" He looked at me hard. "There are more things in heaven and earth," said he. "If it is a
woman, how does she get there?" "I don't know." "No, nor I. But if it is the other thing--but there, for a practical
business man at the end of the nineteenth century this is rather a
ridiculous line of conversation." He turned away, but I saw that he
felt even more than he had said. To all the old ghost stories of
Thorpe Place a new one was being added before our very eyes. It may by
this time have taken its permanent place, for though an explanation
came to me, it never reached the others. And my explanation came in this way. I had suffered a sleepless night
from neuralgia, and about midday I had taken a heavy dose of chlorodyne
to alleviate the pain. At that time I was finishing the indexing of
Sir John Bollamore's library, and it was my custom to work there from
five till seven. On this particular day I struggled against the double
effect of my bad night and the narcotic. I have already mentioned that
there was a recess in the library, and in this it was my habit to work. I settled down steadily to my task, but my weariness overcame me and,
falling back upon the settee, I dropped into a heavy sleep. How long I slept I do not know, but it was quite dark when I awoke. Confused by the chlorodyne which I had taken, I lay motionless in a
semi-conscious state. The great room with its high walls covered with
books loomed darkly all round me. A dim radiance from the moonlight
came through the farther window, and against this lighter background I
saw that Sir John Bollamore was sitting at his study table. His
well-set head and clearly cut profile were sharply outlined against the
glimmering square behind him. He bent as I watched him, and I heard
the sharp turning of a key and the rasping of metal upon metal. As if
in a dream I was vaguely conscious that this was the japanned box which
stood in front of him, and that he had drawn something out of it,
something squat and uncouth, which now lay before him upon the table. I never realized--it never occurred to my bemuddled and torpid brain
that I was intruding upon his privacy, that he imagined himself to be
alone in the room. And then, just as it rushed upon my horrified
perceptions, and I had half risen to announce my presence, I heard a
strange, crisp, metallic clicking, and then the voice. Yes, it was a woman's voice; there could not be a doubt of it. But a
voice so charged with entreaty and with yearning love, that it will
ring for ever in my ears. It came with a curious faraway tinkle, but
every word was clear, though faint--very faint, for they were the last
words of a dying woman. "I am not really gone, John," said the thin, gasping voice. "I am here
at your very elbow, and shall be until we meet once more. I die happy
to think that morning and night you will hear my voice. Oh, John, be
strong, be strong, until we meet again." I say that I had risen in order to announce my presence, but I could
not do so while the voice was sounding. I could only remain half
lying, half sitting, paralysed, astounded, listening to those yearning
distant musical words. And he--he was so absorbed that even if I had
spoken he might not have heard me. But with the silence of the voice
came my half articulated apologies and explanations. He sprang across
the room, switched on the electric light, and in its white glare I saw
him, his eyes gleaming with anger, his face twisted with passion, as
the hapless charwoman may have seen him weeks before. "Mr. Colmore!" he cried. "You here! What is the meaning of this, sir?" With halting words I explained it all, my neuralgia, the narcotic, my
luckless sleep and singular awakening. As he listened the glow of
anger faded from his face, and the sad, impassive mask closed once more
over his features.