"I fear so. The place seems to be unfortunate. I sell it with a reserve clause. The owner must live there. And no one seems to want to stay; so the place reverts back to me."
"It seems to be an old place."
"Very old. It has been in my family for generations. I have tried to get rid of it, but what can I do when the young men will not stay?"
She shrugged her shoulders expressively. I countered with,
"Perhaps if they knew, as I do, that you owned the property, they would be content to stay, for ever, in Sorona."
"Prettily said," she answered. Then the room became silent, and I heard her heavy breathing, like the deep purr of a cat.
"They come and go," she said at last.
"And, when they go, you sell to another?" I asked.
"Naturally, and with the hope that one will stay."
"I have come for the key," I said bluntly, "the key to the cellar door."