“Oh, any story of the old ruin, so that it is a really marrow-freezing, blood-curdling, hair-raising story.”
“There is the guide to Enderby Castle, Miss Wynnette.”
“Oh, I know; but that contains only outlines—outlines traced in blood and fire, to be sure, but still only outlines. I want a story with more body in it. Come, now, that story of the Lady Cunigunda of Enderby, who was the greatest beauty of her time, for whom kings and princes were vainly breaking their hearts, and who was immured alive for marrying a handsome soldier. Come, tell me all about her. That’s a darling.”
“My dear Miss Wynnette, I know no more about her than you do. Not a bit more than what is printed in the guide. No, nor yet did my old mother, rest her soul.”
“But, now, tell the truth. Does not the ghost of Lady Cunigunda haunt the Round Tower in which she was immured?”
“Not as ever I heard of, my dear. Not as ever I heard of.”
“But, Mrs. Kelsy,” said Wynnette, solemnly, “I thought the old castle was a venerable, historical building.”
“So it is, my dear. So it is. Nobody can gainsay that.”
“But, Mrs. Kelsy, no castle, however ancient, and however full of legends of kings and princes and heroes and saints, can be even respectable, much less venerable, unless it has its ghost.”
“Enderby Old Castle has its ghost, Miss Wynnette,” retorted the old housekeeper, drawing herself up with dignity.