He replaced the letters in the envelope and returned them to Constance.
“Keep them,” he said. “They are valuable to you as letters from your ancestor. Like the letter from Mr. John Dunning, which we received with amazement as a voice from the grave, they help us to realise the business—if one wanted any help. But we realised it before—quite vividly enough—and that,” he sighed, “is all. We are no whit advanced. There were no more papers?”
“I searched the desk over and over again, but I could find nothing more. Now, Leonard.” She took a chair and placed it beside his own at the table. “Leave the fire and take your chair, and we will begin and finish. This time must be the very last. It is high time that we should make an end of this. As for me, I came here this morning just to say that whatever happens I am determined that we must make an end. The thing is becoming dangerous to your peace of mind.”
“We cannot make an end.”
“Yes—yes—we are now persons bewitched. Let us swear that after this morning we will put away the book and the papers and cease from any further trouble about it.”
“If we can,” he replied gloomily.
“Leonard, for the first time in your life you are superstitious.”
“We may swear what we like. We shall come back to the case again to-morrow.”
“We will not. Let us resolve. Nay, Leonard, you must not continue. To you it is becoming dangerous.”
Leonard sighed. “It is weary work. Well, then, for the last time.” He laid the packet of papers upon the table. He opened the dreadful book—the Book of Fate. “It is always the same thing. Whenever I open the book there is the same sense of sickness and loathing. Are the pages poisoned?”