” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. And when I ask you why it is you do so, you have no answer. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. Let us stay the night here. Alone; not even the dog to warn her, and Hoddy deep in the island somewhere. ’ ‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it. Gerald stayed him. Oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue.
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