It was Geoffrey who asked the question. He and Ralph Ravenspur were moving along the lanes that led up to the cliffs. They were deep lanes, with overhanging edges on either side—lanes where it was not easy for two conveyances to pass.
"I dare say you would," Ralph replied. "But not at present. In due course you must know everything. Geoffrey, you are fond of novel reading?"
"Yes, especially books of the Gaboriau type. And yet, in all my reading, I never knew a more thrilling mystery than that of the ivory portrait."
"You had a good look at it, then?"
"Of course I did. The likeness to Marion was amazing. It might have been her own photograph on the ivory. It was the same, yet not the same—Marion transformed to an avenging fury."
"An ancestress of hers, no doubt?"
"Of course. The idea of it being Marion herself is out of the question."
"That you may dismiss at once," Ralph said. "The age of the medallion proves that and Marion is an angel."
"She is. Uncle Ralph, I am fearfully puzzled. What can Marion's queer ancestors and all that kind of thing have to do with our family terror?"
Ralph declined to say, beyond the fact that there was a connection. A horseman was coming pounding down the lane and he stepped aside instinctively.