Florella sat quite still. She knew the sound that was called the gallopping of a horse, and had once or twice been taken in by it, as a child at Waynflete, and she felt as sure as if she had herself experienced it, that whatever the evil was, inward or outward, which had defeated this unhappy Guy Waynflete a hundred years ago, it was alive and at work still. And she knew, too, that she had ranged herself on the other side, and entered into definite conflict with it.
The result of this visit was that a post-card from his sister summoned Cuthbert Staunton up to Moorhead on the day after Guy’s interview with John Cooper.
He was shown his old cousin’s treasures, which she had entrusted to Kitty for the purpose, as soon as he arrived, and studied them with a grave face, and with a far deeper interest than his sisters guessed.
“I think,” he said, “that these things ought to be given back to the Waynfletes. I shall go and see this old lady, and see what her view is.”
“Oh yes,” exclaimed Florella, suddenly, “Mr Staunton, I am sure they ought to have them.”
“In any case,” said Cuthbert, “I will take them and let Waynflete see them. And I say, I think you had better drop joking about the ghost. It was a great tragedy, and they might not like it.”
“Well, but it’s all nonsense, and dead and done for,” said Violet.
“It happened,” said Cuthbert.
He looked so serious, that Constancy’s keen eyes noticed him with inquiry, and Florella, oh, how much she wondered what he knew.
They all walked out together to see the departing purple of the autumn moor, now fading into russet, and as they went down the road, a boy trotted up on a pony, and put a telegram into Cuthbert’s hand.