So to that spot once more the girl returned, standing there like a statue, her ears strained for every sound, waiting and wondering.  But the Whispers had now ceased.  In the distance the stable-clock chimed two.  Yet she remained at her post, determined to solve the mystery, and not in the least afraid of those weird stories which the country-folk in the Highlands so entirely believed.  No ghost, of whatever form, could frighten her, she told herself.  She had never believed in omens or superstitions, and she steeled herself not to believe in them now.  So she remained there in patience, seeking some natural solution of the extraordinary enigma.

But though she waited until the chimes rang out three o’clock and the moon was going down, she heard no other sound.  The Whispers had suddenly ended, and the silence of those gaunt, frowning old walls was undisturbed.  A slight wind had now sprung up, sweeping across the hills, and causing her to feel chill.  Therefore, at last she was reluctantly compelled to quit her post of observation, and retrace her steps by the rough byroad to the house, entering by one of the windows of the morning-room, of which the burglar-alarm was broken, and which on many occasions she had unfastened after her nocturnal rambles with Stewart.  Indeed, concealed under the walls she kept an old rusted table-knife, and by its aid it was her habit to push back the catch and so gain entrance, after reconcealing the knife for use on a future occasion.

On reaching her own room she stood for a few moments reflecting deeply upon her remarkable and inexplicable discovery.  Had the story of those whisperings been told to her she would certainly have scouted them; but she had heard them with her own ears, and was certain that she had not been deceived.  It was a mystery, absolute and complete; and, regarding it as such, she retired to bed.

But her thoughts were very naturally full of the weird story told of the dead and gone owners of Glencardine.  She recollected that horrible story of the Ghaist of Manse and of the spectre of Bridgend.  In the library she had, a year ago, discovered a strange old book—­one which sixty years before had been in universal circulation—­entitled Satan’s Invisible World Discovered, and she had read it from beginning to end.  This book had, perhaps, more influence upon the simple-minded country people in Scotland than any other work.  It consisted entirely of relations of ghosts of murdered persons, witches, warlocks, and fairies; and as it was read as an indoor amusement in the presence of children, and followed up by unfounded tales of the same description, the youngsters were afraid to turn round in case they might be grasped by the “Old One.”  So strong, indeed, became this impression that even grown-up people would not venture, through fear, into another room or down a stair after nightfall.

Her experience in the old castle had, to say the least, been remarkable.  Those weird whisperings were extraordinary.  For hours she lay reflecting upon the many traditions of the old place, some recorded in the historic notices of the House of the Montrose, and others which had gathered from local sources—­the farmers of the neighbourhood, the keepers, and servants.  Those noises in the night were mysterious and puzzling.