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CHAPTER VIII. A CRY IN THE NIGHT. "I forgot to tell you my name," she said, holding out a strong, slender hand. "I am Margaret Howes, and I know you are Elinor Kendall, for I saw it on your locker. I don't know your sister's name—she is your sister, isn't she?" "Where is the body, you wretch?".
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"Oh, stop teasing, Miss Pat," cried Judith, wriggling free. "I wouldn't be an actress if you'd hire me. I'm going to be a writer, and now I'm going to bed. Good-night," and she made a flying leap into her pillows and covered herself to the eyes. "Don't say another word to me tonight," she warned, "or I'll call Miss Jinny. I'm going to sleep." "He's an awfully good sort, if he is queer and stubby," she said, pausing to hide her parcel beneath her stand until the propitious moment. "Pooh! they're as stupid as the rest," thought Patricia contemptuously, and she let her attention wander, studying the various ghosts, making mental notes as to height and size for future reference. "A mistake that under the present dispensation of things might prove awkward for me," said Etwald. "I was no friend to the dead man; I did not like him, nor he me. We both loved the same woman--we were rivals. What then so easy as for you to say--for a jury to believe--that I had stolen the devil-stick and killed Mr. Alymer, so as to get him out of my way.".
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