"What if retribution for a black crime committed in a previous life were hounding me?" he muttered.
"That's nonsense," I snorted.
"Oh, is it?" he exclaimed, stung. "Did you ever hear of my great-grandfather, Sir Richard Gordon of Argyle?"
"Sure; but what's that got to do with——"
"You've seen his portrait: doesn't it resemble me?"
"Well, yes," I admitted, "except that your expression is frank and wholesome whereas his is crafty and cruel."
"He murdered his wife," answered Gordon. "Suppose the theory of reincarnation were true? Why shouldn't a man suffer in one life for a crime committed in another?"
"You mean you think you are the reincarnation of your great-grandfather? Of all the fantastic—well, since he killed his wife, I suppose you'll be expecting Evelyn to murder you!" This last was delivered in searing sarcasm, as I thought of the sweet, gentle girl Gordon had married. His answer stunned me.
"My wife," he said slowly, "has tried to kill me three times in the past week."
There was no reply to that. I glanced helplessly at John Kirowan. He sat in his customary position, chin resting on his strong, slim hands; his white face was immobile, but his dark eyes gleamed with interest. In the silence I heard a clock ticking like a death-watch.