ened with a flush, but he ignored the studied insult of the question. "No such luck. I'd not be takin' up your time if things were simple as that. What I need is someone to help me duck the family curse until I can comply with the will's terms. He was a queer blighter, this American cousin of mine. His great-grandfather came out to the provinces—the States, I should say—without so much as a pot to drink his beer from or a window he could toss it out of; cadet of the family, and all that, you know. He must have prospered, though, for when he burned to death he left half the bally county to his heirs at law, and provided in his will that whoever took the estate must live at least twelve months in the old mansion house. Sort o' period of probation, you see. No member of the family can get a penny of the cash till he's finished out his year of residence. I fancy the old duffer got the wind up at the last and was bound he'd show the heathens that their blighted curse was all a lot of silly rot."
De grandin's air of cold hostility had been moderating steadily. As the caller finished speaking he leant forward with a smile. "You have spoken of a family curse, Monsieur; just what is it, if you please?"
An embarrassed look came in the other's face. "Don't think that I'm an utter ass," he begged. "I know it sounds a bit thick when you put it into words, but—well, the thing has seemed to work, and I'd rather not take chances. All right for me, of course; but there's Avis and the little chap to think of.
"Old Albert Pemberton, my great-grandfather's brother and the founder of the family in America, left two sons, John and Albert, junior. They were willing enough to pass their year of residence, but neither of 'em finished it. John left two sons, and they died trying to live out the year at Foxcroft. So did their two sisters, and their husbands. The chap I take it from was the younger daughter's son, and not born on the property. There's never been a birth in the old manor house, though there have been twelve sudden deaths there; for every legatee attempting to observe the dictates of old Albert's will has died. Yet each generation has passed the estate down with the same proviso for a year's residence as condition precedent to inheritance. Seems as if they're all determined to defy the curse"
"Mille tourments, this everlasting curse; what is this seven times accursed curse of which you speak so glibly and tell us absolutely nothing?"
For answer Pemberton readied in his jacket and produced a locket. It was made of gold, slightly larger than an old-time watch, and set with rows of seed-pearls round the edge. Snapping it open, he disclosed two portraits painted with minute detail on ivory plaques. One was of a young man in a tightly-buttoned jacket of white cloth, high-collared, gilt-braided, with insignia of some military rank upon the shoulders. Upon his head he wore a military cap shaped something like the képi which the French wore in Algeria about the middle of the Nineteenth Century, hooded in a linen sheath which terminated in a neck-cloth trailing down between his shoulders. Despite the mustache and long sideburns the face was youthful; the man could not have been much more than three and twenty.
"That's Albert Pemberton," our visitor announced. "And that's his wife Maria, or, as she was originally known, Sarastai."
"Parbleu!"
"Quite so. Lovely, wasn't she?"
She was, indeed. Her hair, so black it seemed to have the blue lights of a
