"She told me about your great-aunt—the queer old lady who left James Christie's relics to you because you were the only member of the family who didn't keep a black bonnet in readiness for her funeral," he laughed, as he handed me back the ring.
"They were just a batch of letters," I corrected, "not any other relics."
"Yes—the letters written by Lady Frances Webb," he said.
It was my turn to laugh.
"I knew that Mrs. Walker must have been talkative," I declared. "She didn't tell you the latest touch of romance in connection with those letters, did she?"
He was looking into the fire, with an expression of deep thoughtfulness; and I studied his profile for a moment.
"Late romance?" he asked in a puzzled fashion, as he turned to me.
"A publishing company has made me an offer to publish those letters! To make them into a stunning 'best-seller,' with a miniature portrait of Lady Frances Webb, as frontispiece, I dare say, and the oftenest-divorced illustrator in America to furnish pictures of Colmere Abbey, with the lovers mooning 'by Norman stone!'"
He was silent for a little while.
"No, she didn't tell me this," he finally answered.