“Speak for heaven’s sake!” he cried.  “Am I dreaming?”

“Remember the banks of the Seine!” said a singularly sweet voice, which sounded to Mr. Paul Linmere as if it came from leagues and leagues away.  “When you sit by the side of the living love, remember the dead!  Think of the dark rolling river, and of what its waters covered!”

He started from the strange presence, and caught at a post for support.  His self-possession was gone; he trembled like the most abject coward.  Only for a moment—­and then, when he looked again, the apparition had vanished.

“Good God!” he cried, putting his hand to his forehead.  “Do the dead indeed come back!  I saw them take her from the river—­O heaven!  I saw her when she sank beneath the terrible waters!  Is there a hereafter, and does a man sell his soul to damnation who commits what the world calls murder?”

He stopped under a lamp and drew out his pocket-book, taking therefrom a soiled scrap of paper.

“Yes, I have it here.  ’Found drowned, the body of a woman.  Her linen was marked with the name of Arabel Vere.  Another unfortunate—­’ No, I will not read the rest.  I have read it too often, now, for my peace of mind.  Yes, she is dead.  There is no doubt.  I have been dreaming to-night.  Old Trevlyn’s wine was too strong for me.  Arabel Vere, indeed!  Pshaw!  Paul Linmere, are you an idiot?”

Not daring to cast a look behind him, he hurried home, and up to his spacious parlor on the second floor.

Linmere turned up the gas into a flare, and, throwing off his coat, flung himself into an arm-chair, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.  He looked about the room with half-frightened, searching eyes.  He dreaded solitude, and he feared company, yet felt the necessity of speaking to something.  His eyes lighted on the greyhound dozing on the hearth-rug.

“Leo, Leo,” he called, “come here, sir!”

The dog opened his eyes, but gave no responsive wag of his tail.  You saw at once that though Leo was Mr. Paul Linmere’s property, and lived with him, he did not have any attachment for him.

“Come here, sir!” said Linmere, authoritatively.

Still the animal did not stir.  Linmere was nervous enough to be excited to anger by the variest trifle, and the dog’s disobedience aroused his rage.

“Curse the brute!” he cried; and putting his foot against him, he sent him spinning across the room.  Leo did not growl, or cry out, but his eyes gleamed like coals, and he showed his white teeth with savage but impotent hatred.  It was easy to see that if he had been a bulldog instead of a greyhound, he would have torn Mr. Paul Linmere limb from limb.