“It’s a long time ago, sir. The Squire and me are the only two people that remember the thing. What’s the use, after all these years, of having suspicions? I don’t say I have, and I don’t say I haven’t. If I have, they will be buried with me in my grave.” Leonard returned to London. He now understood exactly the condition of the ground, and he had examined the old man whose evidence was so important. Nothing additional was to be got out of him; but the verbal statement of a contemporary after seventy years concerning the event in which Leonard was so much interested was remarkable. He returned to his own rooms. Hither presently came Constance. “My friend and cousin,” she said, in her frank manner, as if there had never been any disturbing question between them, “you are looking worried. What is the matter?” “Am I looking worried?” “The more important point is--are you feeling worried? Leonard, it has nothing to do with that little conversation we had the other day?” “No,” he replied. “Nothing.” It was not a complimentary reply, but, then, Constance was not a girl to expect or to care for compliments. “Well--is it the discovery of the poor relations?” “You will think me a very ridiculous person. I don’t worry in the least about the poor relations. But I am worried about that crime--that murder of seventy years ago.” “Oh! But why?” “It concerns you as well as me.” “Do you mean that I ought to worry about it? I cannot, really. It is too long ago. I feel, really, no interest in it at all--except for a little pity about my grandmother, whose childhood was saddened by the dreadful thing. And that, too, was such a long time ago. But why should it worry you?” “I can hardly tell you why. But it does. Constance, it is the most wonderful thing. You do not suspect me of nerves or idle fancies?” “Not at all. You are quite a strong person as regards nerves.” “Then you will perhaps explain what has happened. Last night I came home about eleven. I remembered that my newly discovered Great-Aunt had sent me as a present--a cheerful present--a book containing a full account, with cuttings from the papers of the time and notes by a woman who was housekeeper at Campaigne Park, of the crime----” “Well?” “I took it out of its brown-paper covering. Again, Constance, am I a man of superstitions?” “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!”