“Certainly not!”
“Well——” He considered the point for a few moments, as one perhaps better concealed. Then he resolved upon communicating it. “When I opened it I was seized with a most curious repulsion—a kind of loathing—which it was difficult to shake off. This morning on looking at the book again I had the same feeling.”
“Yes, it is strange. But you got over it.”
“In spite of it I persisted and resolutely went through the whole book. I am repelled and I am attracted by the subject. I sat up half the night reading it—I have never been so held by any book before.”
“Strange!” Constance repeated. “And for a thing so long ago!”
“I threw it aside at last and went to bed—and to dream. And the end—or the beginning—of it is that I am compelled—I use the word advisedly—compelled, Constance, to investigate the whole affair.”
“Oh! but you are not in earnest? Investigate? But it happened seventy years ago! What can be learned after seventy years?”
“I don’t know. I must investigate and find out what I can.”
Constance looked at him with astonishment. He sat at his desk—but with his chair turned towards her. His face was lined and somewhat haggard: he looked like one who is driven: but he looked resolved.
“Leonard, this is idle fancy.”