‘There, that is the dagger with which Lord Harry Rolleston’—I think that was the name, but knowing nothing of the family or its history, I could not keep the names separate—‘stabbed his brother Gilbert. And there is—’
He took down one after another, and with every one he associated some fact—or fancy perhaps, for I suspect now that he invented not a few of his incidents.
‘They have always been fond of weapons in this house,’ he said. ‘There now is one with the strangest story! It’s in print—I can show it you in print in the library there. It had the reputation of being a magic sword—’
‘Like King Arthur’s Excalibur?’ I asked, for I had read a good deal of the history of Prince Arthur.
‘Just so,’ said Mr Close. ‘Well, that sword had been in the family for many years—I may say centuries. One day it disappeared, and there was a great outcry. A lackey had been discharged for some cause or other, and it was believed he had taken it. But before they found him, the sword was in its place upon the wall. Afterwards the man confessed that he had taken it, out of revenge, for he knew how it was prized. But in the middle of the next night, as he slept in a roadside inn, a figure dressed in ancient armour had entered the room, taken up the sword, and gone away with it. I dare say it was all nonsense. His heart had failed him when he found he was followed, and he had contrived by the help of some fellow-servant to restore it. But there are very queer stories about old weapons—swords in particular. I must go now,’ he concluded, ‘for we have company to-night, and I have a good many things to see to.’
So saying he left me. I remained a long time in the armoury, and then returned to the library, where I seated myself in the same corner as before, and went on with my reading—lost in pleasure.
All at once I became aware that the light was thickening, and that I was very hungry. At the same moment I heard a slight rustle in the room, and looked round, expecting to see Mrs Wilson come to fetch me. But there stood Miss Clara—not now in white, however, but in a black silk frock. She had grown since I saw her last, and was prettier than ever. She started when she saw me.
‘You here!’ she exclaimed, as if we had known each other all our lives. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Reading,’ I answered, and rose from the floor, replacing the book as I rose. ‘I thought you were Mrs Wilson come to fetch me.’
‘Is she coming here?’