'Oh!' cried Armorel, with a profound sigh, 'I feel as if the poor old lady was present listening. Since I could understand anything, I have understood that the possession of those rubies brought disaster upon my people. From generation to generation they have been drowned one after the other--my father--my grandfather--my great-grandfather--my mother--my brothers--all--all drowned. Can you wonder if I rejoice that the things will threaten me no longer?' 'This is sheer superstition.' 'Oh! yes: I know, and yet I cannot choose but to believe it, I have heard the story so often, and always with the same ending. Now, they are gone.' 'Not quite gone. Nearly. As good as gone, however. Dismiss this superstitious dread from your mind, my dear young lady.' 'The rubies are gone. There will be no more of us swallowed up in the cruel sea.' 'No more of you,' repeated Mr. Jagenal, with the incredulous smile of one who has never had in his family a ghost, or a legend, or a curse, or a doom, or a banshee, or anything at all distinguished. 'And now you will be happy. You don't ask me the name of the fortunate young man.' 'No; I do not want to know anything more about the horrid things.' 'What am I to say to him?' 'Tell him the truth.' 'I shall tell him that you discovered the rubies in an old sea-chest with other property accumulated during a great many years: that a scrap of paper with writing on it gave a clue to the owner: and that, by means of other investigation, he has been discovered: that it was next to impossible for your great-grandfather, Captain Rosevean, to have purchased these jewels: and that the presumption is that he recovered them from the wreck, and laid them in the chest, saying nothing, and that the chest was never opened until your succession to the property. That, my dear young lady, is all the story that I have to tell. And now I will go away, with congratulations to Donna Quixote in getting rid of thirty-five thousand pounds.' An hour or two afterwards, Mrs. Elstree appeared. She glided into the room and threw herself into her chair, as if she desired to sleep again. She looked harassed and anxious. 'Zoe,' cried Armorel, 'you are surely ill. What is it? Can I do nothing for you?' 'Nothing. I only wish it was all over, or that I could go to sleep for fifty years, and wake up an old woman--in an almshouse or somewhere--all the troubles over. What a beautiful thing it must be to be old and past work, with fifteen shillings a week, say, and nothing to think about all day except to try and forget the black box! If it wasn't for the black box--I know I should see them always coming along the road with it--it must be the loveliest time.' 'Well--but--what makes you look so ill?'