Margaret decided that further questioning would sound impertinent, and started a fresh topic. "If you're interested in old buildings," she said, "you ought to go over the Priory itself. It's the most weird place, full of nooks and crannies, and rooms leading out of one another."
"I noticed some very fine panelling when I took you home the other night," he said. "Have you any records of the place, I wonder?"
"No, funnily enough we haven't," she answered. "You'd think there ought to be something, and as far as I know my uncle didn't take anything out of the house when Aunt Flora died, but we can't find anything."
"Nothing amongst the books?"
"There aren't many, you know. No, nothing. Celia was awfully disappointed, because she thought there was bound to be a history, or something. And we should rather like to find out whether there's any foundation for the story of the haunting."
Strange sat down beside her on the tomb. "How much store do you set by that tale?" he asked. "Do you really believe in it?"
"I don't really know," she said, wrinkling her brow. "I haven't seen the famous Monk, and until I do - I'll reserve judgment."
"Very wise," he approved. "And if you do see it I wish you'd tell me. I should like to have first-hand evidence of a real ghost." He chanced to glance up as he spoke, and his eyes narrowed. "Oh!" he said, in rather a curt voice. "So you did call in the police after all?"
Margaret looked quickly in the same direction. Mr. Flinders was tramping down one of the paths, very obviously on his way from the house back to the village. Without quite knowing why, she felt slightly guilty. "Yes. We - we thought we'd try and get to the bottom of our ghost."
He turned his head, and looked directly at her. "You've made up your minds to keep whatever you've seen, or heard, to yourselves," he said abruptly. "You're scared of this place, aren't you?"