“True enough,” broke off Featherston. “But it seems to me there must be something mysterious about the sickness.” He read on again.
“‘Stella, who is here, was the first to suggest your seeing her, but it was already exercising my thoughts. Do come, George! the sooner the better. I and Jules will be delighted to have you with us.’”
Featherston slowly folded up the letter. “What do you think of all this, Johnny Ludlow? Curious, is it not?”
“Very. Especially that hint about the house being haunted by the dead-and-gone Miss Preen.”
“I have never heard clearly what it was Lavinia Preen died of,” observed Featherston, leaving, doctor-like, the supernatural for the practical. “Except that she was seized with some sort of illness one day and died the next.”
“But that’s no reason why her ghost should walk. Is it?”
“Nancy’s imagination,” spoke Featherston slightingly. “She was always foolish and fanciful.”
“Shall you go to Sainteville, Mr. Featherston?”
He gave his head a slow, dubious shake, but did not speak.