"Oh, I was full of the story—you have simply forgotten."
"Then you should have reminded me!"
"If I had thought of it I would have held my peace, for you wouldn't have come."
"I wish, indeed, I hadn't!" cried Mrs. Coyle. "What is the story?"
"Oh, a deed of violence that took place here ages ago. I think it was in George the First's time. Colonel Wingrave, one of their ancestors, struck in a fit of passion one of his children, a lad just growing up, a blow on the head of which the unhappy child died. The matter was hushed up for the hour—some other explanation was put about. The poor boy was laid out in one of those rooms on the other side of the house, and amid strange smothered rumours the funeral was hurried on. The next morning, when the household assembled, Colonel Wingrave was missing; he was looked for vainly, and at last it occurred to some one that he might perhaps be in the room from which his child had been carried to burial. The seeker knocked without an answer—then opened the door. Colonel Wingrave lay dead on the floor, in his clothes, as if he had reeled and fallen back, without a wound, without a mark, without anything in his appearance to indicate that he had either struggled or suffered. He was a strong, sound man—there was nothing to account for such a catastrophe. He is supposed to have gone to the room during the night, just before going to bed, in some fit of compunction or some fascination of dread. It was only after this that the truth about the boy came out. But no one ever sleeps in the room."
Mrs. Coyle had fairly turned pale. "I hope not! Thank heaven they haven't put us there!"
"We're at a comfortable distance; but I've seen the gruesome chamber."
"Do you mean you've been in it?"
"For a few moments. They're rather proud of it and my young friend showed it to me when I was here before."
Mrs. Coyle stared. "And what is it like?"