After all, why should I tell Grace Bridgeworth — ever? I had had a glimpse of things that were really no business of hers. If the revelation had been vouchsafed to me, ought I not to bury it in those deepest depths where the inexplicable and the unforgettable sleep together? And besides, what interest could there be to a woman like Grace in a tale she could neither understand nor believe in? She would just set me down as “queer” — and enough people had done that already. My first object, when I finally did get back to New York, was to convince everybody of my complete return to mental and physical soundness; and into this scheme of evidence my experience with Mary Pask did not seem to fit. All things considered, I would hold my tongue.

But after a while the thought of the grave began to trouble me. I wondered if Grace had ever had a proper grave-stone put on it. The queer neglected look of the house gave me the idea that perhaps she had done nothing — had brushed the whole matter aside, to be attended to when she next went abroad. “Grace forgets,” I heard the poor ghost quaver . . . No, decidedly, there could be no harm in putting (tactfully) just that one question about the care of the grave; the more so as I was beginning to reproach myself for not having gone back to see with my own eyes how it was kept . . .

Grace and Horace welcomed me with all their old friendliness, and I soon slipped into the habit of dropping in on them for a meal when I thought they were likely to be alone. Nevertheless my opportunity didn’t come at once — I had to wait for some weeks. And then one evening, when Horace was dining out and I sat alone with Grace, my glance lit on a photograph of her sister — an old faded photograph which seemed to meet my eyes reproachfully.

“By the way, Grace,” I began with a jerk, “I don’t believe I ever told you: I went down to that little place of . . . of your sister’s the day before I had that bad relapse.”

At once her face lit up emotionally. “No, you never told me. How sweet of you to go!” The ready tears overbrimmed her eyes. “I’m so glad you did.” She lowered her voice and added softly: “And did you see her?”

The question sent one of my old shudders over me. I looked with amazement at Mrs. Bridgeworth’s plump face, smiling at me through a veil of painless tears. “I do reproach myself more and more about darling Mary,” she added tremulously. “But tell me — tell me everything.”

There was a knot in my throat; I felt almost as uncomfortable as I had in Mary Pask’s own presence. Yet I had never before noticed anything uncanny about Grace Bridgeworth. I forced my voice up to my lips.

“Everything? Oh, I can’t — .” I tried to smile.

“But you did see her?”

I managed to nod, still smiling.

Her face grew suddenly haggard — yes, haggard! “And the change was so dreadful that you can’t speak of it? Tell me — was that it?”

I shook my head. After all, what had shocked me was that the change was so slight — that between being dead and alive there seemed after all to be so little difference, except that of a mysterious increase in reality. But Grace’s eyes were still searching me insistently. “You must tell me,” she reiterated. “I know I ought to have gone there long ago — ”

“Yes; perhaps you ought.” I hesitated. “To see about the grave, at least . . . ”

She sat silent, her eyes still on my face. Her tears had stopped, but her look of solicitude slowly grew into a stare of something like terror. Hesitatingly, almost reluctantly, she stretched out her hand and laid it on mine for an instant. “Dear old friend — ” she began.

“Unfortunately,” I interrupted, “I couldn’t get back myself to see the grave . . . because I was taken ill the next day . . . ”

“Yes, yes; of course. I know.” She paused. “Are you sure you went there at all?” she asked abruptly.

“Sure? Good Lord — ” It was my turn to stare. “Do you suspect me of not being quite right yet?” I suggested with an uneasy laugh.

“No — no . . . of course not . . . but I don’t understand.”

“Understand what? I went into the house . . . I saw everything, in fact, but her grave . . . ”

“Her grave?” Grace jumped up, clasping her hands on her breast and darting away from me. At the other end of the room she stood and gazed, and then moved slowly back.

“Then, after all — I wonder?” She held her eyes on me, half fearful and half reassured. “Could it be simply that you never heard?”

“Never heard?”

“But it was in all the papers! Don’t you ever read them? I meant to write . . . I thought I had written . . . but I said: ‘At any rate he’ll see it in the papers’ . . . You know I’m always lazy about letters . . . ”

“See what in the papers?”

“Why, that she didn’t die . . . She isn’t dead! There isn’t any grave, my dear man! It was only a cataleptic trance . . . An extraordinary case, the doctors say . . . But didn’t she tell you all about it — if you say you saw her?” She burst into half-hysterical laughter: “Surely she must have told you that she wasn’t dead?”

“No,” I said slowly, “she didn’t tell me that.”

We talked about it together for a long time after that — talked on till Horace came back from his men’s dinner, after midnight. Grace insisted on going in and out of the whole subject, over and over again. As she kept repeating, it was certainly the only time that poor Mary had ever been in the papers. But though I sat and listened patiently I couldn’t get up any real interest in what she said. I felt I should never again be interested in Mary Pask, or in anything concerning her.