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“Blood?”

“Yes, blood,” she said. “Can you make anything of that?”

I was silent, and a chill wind seemed to blow through the stage of the Grand Theatre that caused us both to shiver. My mind was a blank, though it was at- tempting to function furiously. A light burst on me suddenly.

“You would say it was the same hand that . . . ?” I questioned, pausing.

“That’s what I thought at once,” she admitted. She shivered slightly at the thought that it had been so close to her. “It couldn’t be, could it?”

She was like a little child groping in the dark, looking to me for confirmation. I shook my head.

“I’m sorry, because I don’t want you to be unduly alarmed,” I said, “but I think it certainly could be. An invisible hand that can choke a man to death can surely pick up a brooch from a table, I should say. And the blood. . . .” I paused, and then went on . . . “the blood—well, you know I stabbed the hand with this dagger only a few minutes ago. It would still have been bleeding.”

“If that is the case,” she said slowly, “how can I ever be safe . . . how can I ever have any peace of mind, when I never can tell what . . . presence . . . is with me?” she paled again. “No matter where I

go . . . no matter what I do . . . I will never be