“Whatever could have made you think I was here in the night?” inquired the doctor.
“It was a mistake, either of mine or somebody else’s,” evasively replied Justin.
“But who said I was here?” persisted the doctor.
“One of the servants, I believe, fancied that you had called.”
“Which one?”
“Old Bob.”
“Oh, ah, he dreamed it! I was six miles from here between one and two o’clock. I was out at a diabolical old place called Witch Elms, attending the death-bed of an antediluvian old woman, named Miss Pole.”
While Colonel Rosenthal and Doctor Burney conversed together, Erminie listened attentively, turning towards each as he spoke. Occasionally an arch smile played over her expressive features, as though she thought she could, if she pleased, explain the mystery that so puzzled her physician and her brother. But when she heard the name of the old lady at Witch Elms, she said:
“I knew Miss Pole slightly. She was the great grand-aunt of my dear friend, Miss Conyers. I called at Witch Elms once. The reminiscence is not a pleasant one. Still I hope the old lady was well prepared for the last great change.”
“I doubt it,” said the doctor. “She died very much as I imagine she had lived. And she left me two very strange commissions. The first was to deliver into the hands of Britomarte Conyers a certain packet not to be opened until after her funeral. The second was to forbid Miss Conyers from attending that funeral. I shall discharge both, before leaving the house this morning.”