It was he who first broke the silence which followed.  “You were saying that you had questions to ask me.  I am impatient to put mine in return, so please go on.”

It had been a relief to me to turn even to generalizations of despair from the actual horror which had inspired them, and to which my mind was thus recalled.  With an effort I replied, “Yes, I want to ask you about that room—­the room in which I slept, and—­ and the murder which was committed there.”  In spite of all that I could do, my voice sank almost to a whisper as I concluded, and I was trembling from head to foot.

“Who told you that a murder was committed there?” Something in my face as he asked the question made him add quickly, “Never mind.  You are right.  That is the room in which Hugh Mervyn was murdered by his wife.  I was surprised at your question, for I did not know that anyone but my brothers and myself were aware of the fact.  The subject is never mentioned:  it is closely connected with one intensely painful to our family, and besides, if spoken of, there would be inconveniences arising from the superstitious terrors of servants, and the natural dislike of guests to sleep in a room where such a thing had happened.  Indeed it was largely with the view of wiping out the last memory of the crime’s locality, that my father renewed the interior of the room some twenty years ago.  The only tradition which has been adhered to in connection with it is the one which has now been violated in your person—­the one which precludes any unmarried woman from sleeping there.  Except for that, the room has, as you know, lost all sinister reputation, and its title of ‘haunted’ has become purely conventional.  Nevertheless, as I said, you are right—­that is undoubtedly the room in which the murder was committed.”

He stopped and looked up at me, waiting for more.

“Go on; tell me about it, and what followed.”  My lips formed the words; my heart beat too faintly for my breath to utter them.

“About the murder itself there is not much to tell.  The man, I believe, was an inhuman scoundrel, and the woman first killed him in desperation, and afterwards herself in despair.  The only detail connected with the actual crime of which I have ever heard, was the gale that was blowing that night—­the fiercest known to this countryside in that generation; and it has always been said since that any misfortune to the Mervyns—­especially any misfortune connected with the curse—­comes with a storm of wind.  That was why I so disliked your story of the imaginary tempests which have disturbed your nights since you slept there.  As to what followed,”—­he gave a sigh,—­“that story is long enough and full of incident.  On the morning after the murder, so runs the tale, Dame Alice came down to the Grange from the tower to which she had retired when her son’s wickednesses had driven her from his house, and there in the presence of the two corpses