"Superficially, I grant it," his brother acknowledged. "As a matter of
scientific fact, I recognize the probability of your actually being a
person utterly different from what you appear. Man becomes what he is
according to the circumstances by which he is assailed. Now your life
here, George, must be a singularly uneventful one."
"Not during the last six months," Lord Ashleigh remarked, with a sigh.
"Even these last few days have been exciting enough. I must confess that
they have left me with a queer sort of nervousness. I find myself
listening intently sometimes,--conscious, as it were, of the influence or
presence of some indefinite danger."
"Very interesting," the Professor murmured. "Spiritualism, as an exact
science, has always interested me very much."
Lady Ashleigh made a little grimace.
"Don't encourage George," she begged. "He is much too superstitious, as it
is."
There was a brief silence. The port had been placed upon the table and
coffee served. The servants, according to the custom of the house, had
departed. The great apartment was empty. Even Quest was impressed by some
peculiar significance in the long-drawn-out silence. He looked around him
uneasily. The frowning regard of that long line of painted warriors seemed
somehow to be full of menace. There was something grim, too, in the sight
of those empty suits of armour.
"I may be superstitious," Lord Ashleigh said, "but there are times,
especially just lately, when I seem to find a new and hateful quality in
silence.
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