“Tell me his name,” breathed Ralph.  “Only tell me his name!”

Miss Evelina threw back her beautiful head proudly.  “No,” she said, firmly, “I will not.  Go,” she cried, pointing uncertainly to the door.  “For the love of God, go!”

XXI

The Poppies Claim Their Own

It was dusk, and Anthony Dexter sat in the library.  Through the day, he had wearied himself to the point of exhaustion, but his phantom pursuer had not tired.  The veiled figure of Evelina had kept pace easily with his quick, nervous stride.  At the point on the river road, where he had met her for the first time, she had, indeed, seemed to go ahead of him and wait for him there.

Night brought no relief.  By a singular fatality, he could see her in darkness as plainly as in sunshine, and even when his eyes were closed, she hovered persistently before him.  Throughout his drugged sleep she moved continuously; he never dreamed save of her.

In days gone by, he had been certain that he was the victim of an hallucination, but now, he was not so sure.  He would not have sworn that the living Evelina was not eternally in his sight.  Time and time again he had darted forward quickly to catch her, but she swiftly eluded him.  “If,” he thought, gritting his teeth, “I could once get my hands upon her——­”

His fists dosed tightly, then, by a supreme effort of will, he put the maddening thought away.  “I will not add murder to my sins,” he muttered; “no, by Heaven, I will not!”

By a whimsical change of his thought, he conceived himself dead and in his coffin.  Would Evelina pace ceaselessly before him then?  When he was in his grave, would she wait eternally at the foot of it, and would those burning eyes pierce the shielding sod that parted them?  Life had not served to separate them—­could he hope that Death would prove potent where Life had failed?

Ralph came in, tired, having done his father’s work for the day.  The room was wholly dark, but he paused upon the threshold, conscious that some one was there.

“Alone, father?” he called, cheerily.

“No,” returned Anthony Dexter, grimly.

“Who’s here?” asked Ralph, stumbling into the room.  “It’s so dark, I can’t see.”

Fumbling for a match, he lighted a wax candle which stood in an antique candlestick on the library table.  The face of his father materialised suddenly out of the darkness, wearing an expression which made Ralph uneasy.

“I thought,” he said, troubled, “that some one was with you.”

“Aren’t you here?” asked Anthony Dexter, trying to make his voice even.

“Oh,” returned Ralph.  “I see.”

With the candle flickering uncertainly between them, the two men faced each other.  Sharp shadows lay on the floor and Anthony Dexter’s profile was silhouetted upon the opposite wall.  He noted that the figure of Evelina, pacing to and fro, cast no shadow.  It seemed strange.