I had a feeling of ruffled dignity.
"Of course—tourists!" I answered, bridling a little.
"Because," he hastened to explain, "the owners of the places can so often afford to live at home only a short season every year. Many of them are poor, and the places they own are mortgaged to the turrets."
"And the shut-up dilapidation would not make pleasant sight-seeing for rich Americans?"
He nodded.
"I happen to have heard some such report about this Colmere Abbey—years ago," he said.
"Are you sure it was the same place?" I asked, my heart suddenly bounding. "Colmere, in Lancashire?"
"Quite sure! I was brought up in Nottingham, and have heard of the estate, but have never seen it."
"Then it's still there—my house of dreams?"
For a moment I waited, palpitatingly, for him to say more, but he only looked at me musingly, then back into the fire. After a second he leaned forward, shaking his unruly hair back, as if he were trying to rid himself from a haunting thought.