Part 2 (2/2)

He looked at me curiously, as though he suspected me of some sinister motive, and his black eyes glittered.

”Have you heard anything which would lead you to think this house had a story? or have you come here out of pure speculation?” he said, brusquely.

”I suspected there must be legends about a house as old as this,” I replied, ”and a man we met some distance from here told us that--that----”

”You need not go further,” he said, grimly, ”I know all the stories that are afloat among the people who live within a few miles of the place. You have heard that I have sold myself to the devil, and that the house is haunted by evil spirits?”

I did not reply.

”You are bold fellows to come here,” he continued, ”for I am reported to have wonderful powers, being able to call to my aid the might of the king of darkness. But I do not know your names and so cannot talk freely with you.”

I told him our names.

”I know you both by reputation,” he said. ”You,” turning to Will, ”are a barrister, and bidding fair to donning silk, while you,” turning to me, ”are making your name known as a novelist.”

”I have read your books,” he continued; ”and--well”--he stopped and mused a minute, and then, pointing to the bookshelves, continued--”I get nearly everything. Science, religion, history, travel, poetry, romance, I see them all. That's how I know your names and professions.

I send one of my servants to Plymouth every month, and thus I get all I need.”

We soon fell to talking about books, and I found that intellectually this Squire Trewinion was a man of more than ordinary power. We had not conversed long however, before I saw a great change come over him.

He seemed possessed by some nervous dread, and was evidently anxious to drop the subject of books.

Seeing this, I turned the conversation to the old house in which we stood, and asked him the year of its erection.

”It dates from the time of Charles II,” he said, ”and is, perhaps, the best built house in the whole county. And it had need to be so, for the storms which sometimes beat upon us are terrific.”

”Are there any stories or legends about it?” I said, laughingly.

He looked at me as though he would read my heart's inmost secrets, and then burst out:

”Yes, there are stories, there are legends, there are mysteries, and they are true.”

I thought at first that he was joking, but he continued:

”Yes, there is truth in the wildest story afloat, not perhaps in the exact way that the ignorant clowns think; but, sir----”

He stopped again for a second, as if making up his mind upon some point. Evidently, his lonely mode of living caused him to act differently from the conventional society man.

”We Trewinions are an old race, sir, and some of my ancestors have been very violent,” he continued.

”That is not to be wondered at,” I replied. ”Life here, a century ago, must have been far different from the life of to-day, while earlier still, when smugglers sought the caves around, and pirates sailed the seas, it must have been almost impossible for anyone to live in such a neighbourhood as this without leading a strange life.”

”You are interested in mysterious stories and legends, are you not?” he said.

I told him that I had almost a pa.s.sion for the supernatural, the mysterious, and the occult.

He looked at me again, long and steadily.

<script>