"Good morning, Miss Harley. Isn't it a ripping morning for the time of year?" he said.
"I am afraid it is going to rain," she replied.
"Of course," agreed Rayton, somewhat abashed, and glancing up at the gray sky. "That's what I meant, you know. Rain's just what we need. It will keep the frost off for a while longer, don't you think so?"
"Oh, please don't talk about the weather, Mr. Rayton. I feel too—too worried to talk about the weather."
"Worried!" exclaimed the young man. "I am sorry. Is there anything I can do, Miss Harley? If so, just name it, please. I'd be delighted, you know. May—may I ask what is the trouble?"
"Please come in. There is a fire in the sitting room. Come in, if you can spare the time, for I want to tell you all about it—though I suppose you know already."
Reginald followed her into the sitting room and took a seat across the glowing hearth from her. He felt torn by her undisclosed trouble, and bewildered by his own good fortune. He forgot to inquire after Jim and Mrs. Harley, and the saucepan of very particular dimensions fled from his mind. He sat in a low chair and gazed anxiously and expectantly at Nell Harley. She sat with her elbow on her knee, her round chin on the heel of her hand, and the shadow of retrospection over her bright, pale face. Her eyes were lowered, but presently, and it seemed to him as suddenly as a flash of lightning, she raised them to his glance.
"It is about that card I am worrying so," she said. "I have heard all about it—about the card that was dealt to David Marsh with the two little red crosses drawn upon the face of it. Already he has broken his arm, lost his canoe, and had his camp burned down. It is terrible—and I am frightened. I know the tradition, and believe it fully. Jim does not like to talk about it, and Kate thinks it is all nonsense, though she is too kind to actually say so. But I know that every word of the old story is true. It frightens me. Do you believe that—that the curse is still following us—or does it all seem utterly ridiculous to you?"
Reginald turned his eyes away from her face with a visible effort, gazed into the heart of the fire for a moment or two, studied the pattern of the rug at his feet, and inspected the ceiling. His glance returned to her face, held for a moment, then veered in panic to the window.
"Of course I believe the story that Jim told to me," he said, "and I consider it a—a very remarkable story—and terribly sad, too; but it was the work of man, or men, of course. There was nothing supernatural about it. An enemy—a rival—used those red marks on a card in each case, as a warning. First it was the Spanish count, and next it was that Mr. Jackson. But now, in Samson's Mill Settlement—why, I feel quite sure it is nothing but chance. Nobody but Jim knew of that family story, and he certainly did not mark the card. And—and the conditions are not right. At least, that's how it looks to me."