"The other night," she went on--"when Mr. Santoris first came on board
I had a singular impression that he was or had been an enemy of
mine,--though where or how I could not say. It was this that frightened
me, and made me too ill and nervous to go with you on that excursion to
Loch Coruisk. And I want to get away from him! I never had such
impressions before--and even now,--looking at you,--I feel there's
something in you which is quite "uncanny,"--it troubles me! Oh!--I'm
sure you mean me no harm--you are bright and amiable and adaptable and
all that--but--I'm afraid of you!"
"Poor Catherine!" I said, very gently--"These are merely nervous ideas!
There is nothing to fear from me--no, nothing!" For here she suddenly
leaned forward and took my hand, looking earnestly in my face--"How can
you imagine such a thing possible?"
"Are you sure?" she half whispered--"When I called you "pagan" just now
I had a sort of dim recollection of a fair woman like you,--a woman I
seemed to know who was really a pagan! Yet I don't know how I knew her,
or where I met her--a woman who, for some reason or other, was hateful
to me because I was jealous of her! These curious fancies have haunted
my mind only since that man Santoris came on board,--and I told Dr.
Brayle exactly what I felt."
"And what did he say?" I asked.
"He said that it was all the work of Santoris, who was an evident
professor of psychical imposture--"