The tall clock, in a corner of the room, ticked loudly.
Out seaward, a nightbird screeched.
An owl in the fir wood behind the house, hooted thrice.
The fire fell together, and shot up tongues of flame.
At last he lifted hunted eyes to her face.
“It is my handwriting,” he said, “or something very like it. But it is dated August 12th, 1882, thirteen months before my birth.”
“Read it,” said Lady Tintagel.
“I cannot.”
“You must.”
She rose, placed a shaded electric lamp on the table at his elbow; then switched off all other lights.