And, so far as I am aware, the curious history of The Towers ends here too.  There was no climax in the story sense.  Nothing ever really happened.  We left next morning for London.  I only know that the Society in question took the house and have since occupied it to their entire satisfaction, and that Mabel, who became a member shortly afterwards, now stays there frequently when in need of repose from the arduous and unselfish labors she took upon herself under its aegis.  She dined with us only the other night, here in our tiny Chelsea flat, and a jollier, saner, more interesting and happy guest I could hardly wish for.  She was vital—­in the best sense; the lay figure had come to life.  I found it difficult to believe she was the same woman whose fearful effigy had floated down those dreary corridors and almost disappeared in the depths of that atrocious Shadow.

What her beliefs were now I was wise enough to leave unquestioned, and Frances, to my great relief, kept the conversation well away from such inappropriate topics.  It was clear, however, that the woman had in herself some secret source of joy, that she was now an aggressive, positive force, sure of herself, and apparently afraid of nothing in heaven or hell.  She radiated something very like hope and courage about her, and talked as though the world were a glorious place and everybody in it kind and beautiful.  Her optimism was certainly infectious.

The Towers were mentioned only in passing.  The name of Marsh came up—­ not the Marsh, it so happened, but a name in some book that was being discussed—­and I was unable to restrain myself.  Curiosity was too strong.  I threw out a casual enquiry Mabel could leave unanswered if she wished.  But there was no desire to avoid it.  Her reply was frank and smiling.

“Would you believe it?  She married,” Mabel told me, though obviously surprised that I remembered the housekeeper at all; “and is happy as the day is long.  She’s found her right niche in life.  A sergeant—­”

“The army!” I ejaculated.

“Salvation Army,” she explained merrily.

Frances exchanged a glance with me.  I laughed too, for the information took me by surprise.  I cannot say why exactly, but I expected at least to hear that the woman had met some dreadful end, not impossibly by burning.

“And The Towers, now called the Rest House,” Mabel chattered on, “seems to me the most peaceful and delightful spot in England—­”

“Really,” I said politely.

“When I lived there in the old days—­while you were there, perhaps, though I won’t be sure.”

Mabel went on, “the story got abroad that it was haunted.  Wasn’t it odd?  A less likely place for a ghost I’ve never seen.  Why, it had no atmosphere at all.”  She said this to Frances, glancing up at me with a smile that apparently had no hidden meaning.  “Did you notice anything queer about it when you were there?”

This was plainly addressed to me.