“You are right,” I admitted, after a minute's consideration. “I see it now—though I should never have thought of it.”
“That is the use of being a woman,” she answered.
I waited a second once more, and mused. “Still, that is only one doubtful case,” I objected.
“There was another, you must remember: his uncle Alfred.”
“Alfred Le Geyt?”
“No; HE died in his bed, quietly. Alfred Faskally.”
“What a memory you have!” I cried, astonished. “Why, that was before our time—in the days of the Chartist riots!”
She smiled a certain curious sibylline smile of hers. Her earnest face looked prettier than ever. “I told you I could remember many things that happened before I was born,” she answered. “THIS is one of them.”
“You remember it directly?”
“How impossible! Have I not often explained to you that I am no diviner? I read no book of fate; I call no spirits from the vasty deep. I simply remember with exceptional clearness what I read and hear. And I have many times heard the story about Alfred Faskally.”