"If you think I'm crazy," cried the boy, "I'll show you, as I showed you once before, that I know what I'm talking about! I'll tell you something that was a secret between you two, and your wife didn't tell me, either! The night you'd been here, after you'd gone home, after you were locked in your room, you disputed about this place! She refused to come here again, and she refused to tell you why! But I know why!"
Once more Mr. Montagu gasped and with a thrill of wondering terror.
"Who are you and what are you?" he demanded. "I command you to solve this mystery and solve it now!"
His voice had risen to a shout, but a sudden lump in his throat silenced it, for the boy was weeping again.
"Oh," wept the boy, "if you've liked me at all, put it off as long as you can, for you'll make me tell you I hate you, and why I hate you!"
"Hate me?"
It had struck Henry Montagu like a flail in the face, wiping away his anger, his astonishment at the boy's uncanny knowledge, even his astonishment that the word was able to strike him so.
"I—I've suffered enough through you!" he stammered painfully. "And if I've got to suffer more, I insist on doing it now and getting it over with!"
"Don't! don't! It will never be over with!" gulped the boy.
"I'm through!" cried Mr. Montagu. "Who are you? What are you?"