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Updated: June 10, 2025
"What was it exactly Miss Brabazon thought she saw?" Sir Lyon, after a glance at Varick's pale, set face, was sorry that he had mentioned the curious, painful occurrence; and, though he was a truthful man, he now told a deliberate lie. "I don't know what the apparition purported to be," he observed.
Lionel Varick's face turned a curious, greyly pallid tint. It was as if all the natural colour was drained out of it. "Where's Bubbles?" he asked, in a scarcely audible voice. For a moment no one answered him, and then Blanche said quietly: "Bubbles is over there, in the confessional, asleep."
He looked radiant indeed, his look of happiness was in curious contrast to the lowering expression which now clouded Varick's face. "Bubbles is nearly well again!" he cried joyfully. "She says she'll get up to-morrow, doctor or no doctor!"
This had been left to Miss Pigchalke in an early will made by his poor wife, but it had not been repeated in the testatrix's final will, as Mrs. Varick had fiercely resented Miss Pigchalke's violent disapproval of her marriage. Panton had been amazed to hear of Varick's quite uncalled-for generosity, and he had exclaimed, "Well, that does take the cake! I wish I'd known this before.
Sir Lyon would have given much to have been present at what, if Helen's account were correct, had been an extraordinary example of what is called materialization. Had this terrible vision of Mrs. Varick been an emanation of Helen Brabazon's own brain some subconscious knowledge that she, Helen, was now the object of Varick's pursuit?
One of Varick's boon companions in camp and hunting excursions was a distinguished New York specialist in nervous diseases. A day or two later Varick found it convenient to drop into this man's office and, quite casually, tell him the story of his dreams, giving it various light touches that he fondly imagined concealed the anxiety that lay beneath the recital.
So jolly, Jolly, 'We tax the tea, but love is free, Sweet Molly, Molly! My grenadier he said to me, 'We tax the tea, but love is free! And so my song it ends, you see, In folly, Folly!" I listened angrily; the voice was Dorothy Varick's, and I wondered that she had the heart to sing such foolishness for men whose grip was already on her people's throats.
"I suppose," and then Mark Gifford looked at her with a troubled, hesitating look, "I suppose, Blanche I fear I'm going to surprise you that you were not aware that he'd been married before?" "Yes," she said eagerly, "I did know that, Mark." What on earth was he driving at? That woman, Lionel Varick's first wife, was surely dead?
To Varick's excited fancy there was a heart-breaking pathos in the soft notes. They seemed to have been together, he and she, for a long time for hours. He bent his head till it touched hers. "But you love me?" he asked. She moved a little and wiped her eyes with an absurdly tiny, lace-edged square of linen. One corner, he noticed, bore an embroidered coronet.
Again and again she tried to fill in the bare outlines of the tale. Lionel Varick a murderer? Her mind, her heart, refused to accept the possibility. Suddenly there came back to her a recollection of the curious, now many years old, circumstances which had attended her knowledge of Varick's first marriage.
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