'Well, madam, what do you expect of me?'
'I hoped you would investigate, and find perhaps where Reginald and the clergyman are buried. I realise that I have no proof, but in that way my strange story will be corroborated.'
I leaned back in my chair and looked at her. Truth to tell, I only partially credited her story myself, and yet I was positive she believed every word of it. Ten years brooding on a fancied injustice by a woman living alone, and doubtless often in dire poverty, had mixed together the actual and the imaginary until now, what had possibly been an aimless flirtation on the part of the young man, unexpectedly discovered by the father, had formed itself into the tragedy which she had told me.
'Would it not be well,' I suggested, 'to lay the facts before the present Lord Rantremly?'
'I have done so,' she answered simply.
'With what result?'
'His lordship said my story was preposterous. In examining the late lord's private papers, he discovered the letter which I typed and signed. He said very coldly that the fact that I had waited until everyone who could corroborate or deny my story was dead, united with the improbability of the narrative itself, would very likely consign me to prison if I made public a statement so incredible.'
'Well, you know, madam, I think his lordship is right.'
'He offered me an annuity of fifty pounds, which I refused.'
'In that refusal, madam, I think you are wrong. If you take my advice, you will accept the annuity.'