“There is; though I can’t really do it justice. The parson here is the only man who knows the whole yarn.—By the way, old dear,” he spoke to his wife across the table, “the reverend bird takes tea with us to-morrow. But he is the only man who has the thing at his finger tips. The previous owner was a bit vague himself, but having a sense of the fitness of things, he gave me a chance of buying the picture. Apparently it’s a painting of one Sir James Wrothley who lived round about the time of Henry VIII. He was either a rabid Protestant or a rabid Roman Catholic—I told you I was a bit vague over details—and he used this identical room as a secret meeting-place for himself and his pals to hatch plots against his enemies.” “Jack _is_ so illuminating, isn’t he?” laughed his wife. “Well, I bet you can’t tell it any better yourself,” he retorted with a grin. “I admit my history is weak. But anyway, about that time, if the jolly old Protestants weren’t burning the R.C.’s, the R.C.’s were burning the Protestants. A period calling for great tact, I’ve always thought. Well, at any rate, this Sir James Wrothley—when his party was being officially burned—came here and hatched dark schemes to reverse the procedure. And then, apparently, one day somebody blew the gaff, and the whole bunch of conspirators in here were absolutely caught in the act by the other crowd, who put ’em all to death on the spot. Which is all I can tell you about it.” “I must ask the padre to-morrow,” I said to his wife. “I’d rather like to hear the whole story. I felt when I first came into this room there was history connected with it.” She looked at me rather strangely for a moment; then she gave a little forced laugh. “Do you know, Tom,” she said slowly, “at times I almost hate this room. All my friends gnash their teeth with envy over it—but sometimes, when Jack’s been away, and I’ve dined in here by myself—it’s terrified me. I feel as if—I wasn’t alone: as if—there were people all round me—watching me. Of course, it’s absurd, I know. But I can’t help it. And yet I’m not a nervy sort of person.” “I don’t think it’s at all absurd,” I assured her. “I believe I should feel the same myself. A room of this size, which, of necessity, is dimly lighted in the corners, and which is full of historical associations, must cause an impression on the least imaginative person.” “We used it once for a dance,” she laughed; “with a ragtime band in the gallery.” “And a great show it was, too,” broke in her husband. “The trouble was that one of the musicians got gay with a bottle of whisky, and very nearly fell clean through that balustrade effect on to the floor below. I haven’t had that touched—and the wood is rotten.” “I pray you be seated, gentlemen.” A sudden silence fell on the table, and everybody stared at Bill Sibton. “Is it a game, Bill?” asked Jack Drage. “I rather thought we were. And what about the ladies?”