"He was even more famous in England than in his own country," Mrs. Montgomery threw in hastily, as she saw her husband's eyes twinkling—a sure sign, I afterward learned, that he was going to say something wicked. "He painted all the notable people of the age."
"He made many pictures of the Lady Frances Webb," Mr. Montgomery succeeded in saying, after a while. "I don't know whether it's well known in America or not, but—there was—talk!"
"Herbert!"
He stiffened.
"It's true, my dear."
"We don't know whether it's true or not!" she contended.
"Well, it's tradition! I'm sure Miss Christie wouldn't want to come to England and not learn all the old legends she might."
Then, partly because I was bubbling over with excitement, and partly because I wished to ease Mrs. Montgomery's mind on the subject, I began telling them my story—from the day of Aunt Patricia's sudden whim, three days before her death, down to the packet of faded letters lying at that moment in the bottom of my steamer trunk.
"I thought perhaps the present owner of Colmere might let me burn them there!" I explained. "I have pictured her as a dear and somewhat lonely old dowager who would take a great deal of interest in this ancient affair."
The three looked at me intently for an instant, but not one of them laughed.