Page:Arthur Stringer--The House of Intrigue.djvu/330

310 "And how long have you been one of them?" I inquired. I stepped into the room and shut the door behind me. Then I sat down facing her. She was giving me a good deal to think over.

"From the day I was born," she explained, with a perverse enjoyment in my perplexity.

"Are you ever called Claire?" I asked.

"Yes, since it happens to be my name."

"But Clarissa Bartlett, the real Clarissa Bartlett, is supposed to be dead," I tried to tell her.

"I've been as good as dead for the last few weeks," was her somewhat embittered answer.

"But how did you get out here?" I inquired, going back to my first question.

"I got in a car and motored out," she calmly explained.

"But why did you come here? Why did you come to this particular house?" I persisted. She hesitated. And still again I repeated the question.

"I'd go anywhere to get away from that awful house," was her final acknowledgment.

"Why do you call it awful?"

Her reply was at least a startling one.

"Because Wendy Washburn made it that way for me!"