“Well—is it the discovery of the poor relations?”
“You will think me a very ridiculous person. I don’t worry in the least about the poor relations. But I am worried about that crime—that murder of seventy years ago.”
“Oh! But why?”
“It concerns you as well as me.”
“Do you mean that I ought to worry about it? I cannot, really. It is too long ago. I feel, really, no interest in it at all—except for a little pity about my grandmother, whose childhood was saddened by the dreadful thing. And that, too, was such a long time ago. But why should it worry you?”
“I can hardly tell you why. But it does. Constance, it is the most wonderful thing. You do not suspect me of nerves or idle fancies?”
“Not at all. You are quite a strong person as regards nerves.”
“Then you will perhaps explain what has happened. Last night I came home about eleven. I remembered that my newly discovered Great-Aunt had sent me as a present—a cheerful present—a book containing a full account, with cuttings from the papers of the time and notes by a woman who was housekeeper at Campaigne Park, of the crime——”
“Well?”
“I took it out of its brown-paper covering. Again, Constance, am I a man of superstitions?”