At that moment the woman who had been left at the mansion came from the kitchen.  She caught one glimpse of the girl and set up a shriek.

“It’s a ghost!” she cried.  “A ghost!  Heaven help me!”

The cry was so piercing and so genuine, it roused Margaret from the stupor in which she was moving.

“My father!  He is dead, after all!  Oh, daddy!” she screamed, and then turned, brushed past the woman, and sped out of the back door of the mansion.

“What’s the matter?” came from the policeman who was on guard.

“She—­a ghost!” stammered Mrs. Morse.  “I saw her!”

“Her?  Who?”

“Margaret Langmore!  Or else her ghost!” The woman had gone white, and was shaking from head to feet.

“Where?”

“Here.”

“When?”

“Just now!”

“It can’t have been the girl.  She is in bed, under the doctor’s care.”

“But I saw her!” insisted the woman.

“We’ll take a look around,” answered the guardian of the law.

They commenced the search, but long before this was done Margaret had run back to the river.  She dropped into the rowboat, and rowed off as swiftly as her failing strength would permit.

“Daddy is dead, after all!” she moaned, over and over again.  “And she is dead, too!  I remember it all, now.  And the blood!  Oh, I must get away, or they will hang me, or electrocute me!”

Five minutes more and the rowboat came to grief on some rocks close to the side of the stream.  It commenced to fill with water, and Margaret had to wade ashore, which she did, slowly and deliberately, like one in a dream.  Then she passed into the woods.  Coming to a thick clump of bushes, she sank down exhausted, and there merciful sleep overtook her.

How long she slept, she did not know.  The low growl of a dog aroused her.  She sat up, and the growl of the dog became a heavy bark.  Looking from out of the clump of bushes, she saw a mastiff standing there, eying her suspiciously.

“What is it, boy?” she heard a heavy voice ask.  “A woodchuck?  Never mind now, come on.”

But the mastiff continued to bark, and came close enough to sniff at Margaret’s foot.  She essayed to draw back, but was too weak to do so.

“Won’t come, eh?” cried the man.  “What’s the bloomin’ reason, I’d like to know?”

He came closer and then caught sight of Margaret.  For a second he stared in amazement; then uttered an exclamation.

“You!  How did you get here?”

“Oh!” she fairly screamed.  She recognized Matlock Styles, and knew not what to say.  For some reason she felt as does the bird in the net of the fowler.

“This is bloomin’ strange,” went on the Englishman.  “I thought you were down in the village, under the care of the doctors.”

“I was,” she managed to falter.

“How did you get here—­run away?”