The books were all set in narrow bookcases, and between the bookcases there were spaces occupied by pictures, and I never had seen such strange pictures before. They were just like pictures of ghosts, beautiful faces nearly all of them, but they seemed like faces made out of mist, if you understand me. Over the mantelpiece stood a portrait of an old man with grey hair, and on the gold frame of this picture was written in black letters the name, "Swedenborg." At last my companion turned from the window, wheeled a chair close to me, and sat down. "Now," he said, "I want you to tell me all you know about your family. I want to make perfectly sure that you _are_ the person for whom I have been seeking. Tell me unreservedly, it will be to your advantage." He had taken his gloves off now, and I saw that his hands, very white and delicate-looking, were absolutely covered with the most exquisite rings. "Mine is a very old family," I said. "We lived once in a castle in the North of England, Castle Sinclair." "Yes, yes." "My father was an officer. He was very extravagant. He died in India. I was sent to school in England, then I became a governess--then--then--" "You need not tell me the rest," he said, "I know it. Yes, you are indeed Beatrice Sinclair." He looked at me in a gloomy manner. Then "You have spoken frankly," he said, "and I shall do the same. My name is James Wilder." He paused, and looked at me hard, but I said nothing. "Ah!" he continued, "you know nothing of the past, then? Perhaps it is better so, but I must tell you some of it, so that you may do what I require you to do. Listen. In the reign of King Charles the First a terrible tragedy happened. A member of the Wilder family did a fearful wrong upon a member of the Sinclair family. No family feud took place, because Gerald Wilder, who had committed this wrong, expiated it by suicide, but a blind, reasonless, unintentional feud has been going on between the two houses ever since. The house of Sinclair has warred with our family in a strange and fearful manner. All the eldest sons of our house have been slain before the age of twenty by--a Sinclair. My eldest brother was slain by your father's brother." "My father's brother?" "Yes, they were out shooting together. My brother was shot dead by your uncle. It was an accident; no one was to blame, but fate. Now the fortunes of the two families have been altering during all these years. The house of Wilder is at its zenith. Speaking in a worldly sense, I am worth at least fifty thousand a year, at _least_, and the house of Sinclair?--you are its last representative, how much are you worth?" "Less than nothing."