“You think, of course, that you may share the fate of your mother, father, and brother?” I asked.
“I think it extremely likely,” he replied.
“You are the only one left in your family?”
“Yes,” he said, “the only one.”
“And what are your plans with regard to the Caspar Beeches?” I inquired. “Do you think of residing there?”
“I haven’t made up my mind,” he replied; “that is one of the points upon which I want your advice. I want to know what you think about these deaths. Do you think they were due to some as yet undiscovered physical cause, as, for instance, some unknown disease, or some gas the sanitary authorities have not been able to trace—or, to the superphysical?”
“I can form no opinion at present,” I replied; “I must first have more details. But from what you have said, I think this case presents some novel and very extraordinary features. I should like to see the house. By the way, you haven’t told me your name.”
“Mansfield,” the young man said—“Eldred Mansfield.”
“The son of Sir Thomas Mansfield, the Bornean explorer?”
“Yes.”