CHAPTER XI. A TALK WITH MY UNCLE.
When I returned home for the Christmas holidays, I told my uncle, amongst other things, all that I have just recorded; for although the affair seemed far away from me now, I felt that he ought to know it. He was greatly pleased with my behaviour in regard to the apple. He did not identify the place, however, until he heard the name of the housekeeper: then I saw a cloud pass over his face. It grew deeper when I told him of my second visit, especially while I described the man I had met in the wood.
‘I have a strange fancy about him, uncle,’ I said. ‘I think he must be the same man that came here one very stormy night—long ago—and wanted to take me away.’
‘Who told you of that?’ asked my uncle startled.
I explained that I had been a listener.
‘You ought not to have listened.’
‘I know that now; but I did not know then. I woke frightened, and heard the voices.’
‘What makes you think he was the same man?’
‘I can’t be sure, you know. But as often as I think of the man I met in the wood, the recollection of that night comes back to me.’
‘I dare say. What was he like?’