“But what is the place?” he asked, and Isabel told him, shortly enough, that it was a private residence, though its inhabitants kept very much to themselves, and then she changed the subject. Something in her tone, however, must have struck him, though she said so little, for afterwards, when we were alone—I cannot quite remember if it were the same day, or not till we were again passing the spot—he alluded to it.
“Is there anything queer about that house?” he inquired. “Isabel seemed mysterious! Is it haunted or anything of that kind? How jolly it would be if it were,” and his eyes gleamed. “I’d find my way into it somehow, and make the fellows stare at my adventures when I get back to school.”
“No,” I said cautiously, “it is not haunted;” but my tone—perhaps I did it purposely—only stimulated his inquisitiveness.
He glanced at me suspiciously.
“It is something, then?” he exclaimed. “And you know about it, and don’t mean to tell me! It’s too bad! You know you can trust me if it’s a secret.”
“It isn’t exactly a secret,” I replied. “But if I do tell you, Moore, you must promise me—solemn word of honour—that you’ll not—”
I stopped and hesitated. It was rather difficult to say what I wanted him to promise, for the very suggestion that he was not to think of doing certain things was enough to put them into his head.
“Promise you what?” he asked, seeing my hesitation.
“Well,” I resumed, “that you won’t do anything in the way of trying to discover the mystery—for a mystery there is—without telling me.”
The word was enough. The boy would have promised me anything and everything under its fascinating influence.