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‘you appear to me to be a reasonably sensible man. So be good enough to tell me whether you think this all nonsense.’
    ‘It can’t be done, cousin. I simply lack the information upon which to base any useful conjecture. But perhaps you don’t.’
    ‘Would it be useful to know where my great-grandfather died?’
    ‘Most decidedly it would.’
    ‘He died at the castle, where he had been living in retirement during his last years. His uncle, the second marquess, was a kindly man, and much attached to Adrian. Unfortunately he too died at almost the same time, and there were immediate family disputes of one sort and another. The particulars have not come down to me. However, the main point is clear. Adrian closed his life peacefully at Treskinnick Castle, while still devoting himself to ordering his remains.’
    ‘Ordering his remains! You mean arranging his funeral, and that sort of thing?’
    ‘His literary remains, Charles. Reliquiae , I believe to be the Latin term. He had copious diaries to set in order, and a large correspondence with his friends. When he was very young he and William Wordsworth, who was his contemporary at St John’s, used to exchange poetical compositions. With Coleridge, to whom Wordsworth introduced him, Adrian collaborated in an abortive tragedy. According to my grandfather, who was a person of cultivation, Adrian had simply thrust it away in a drawer, and it never again saw the light of day.’
    ‘But that is perfectly astounding!’ Charles came out with this while actually munching plum cake, and found himself at the same time looking almost suspiciously at his hostess. Was it conceivable that the old girl was pulling his leg? The idea was a fantastic one. ‘Have you ever,’ he asked more calmly, ‘thought of doing anything about the matter yourself?’
    ‘I have certainly once or twice considered paying a visit to the Ampersands – they could hardly decline to receive me, were I to propose myself – and have some quiet conversation with Lord Ampersand about the possibility of finding the remains. But on the whole I have thought it best to wait on the event. And now, Charles, you tell me that the event has, in effect, arrived. With a professional researcher at work, anything of significance will be found – and will be published and edited and so forth by competent people. Money-interests may be involved, as you suggest. But with these we need not concern ourselves.’
    ‘No,’ Charles Digitt said. ‘No – I suppose not.’
    ‘I ought to tell you that I possess a very considerable collection of family papers myself. Perhaps I shall show it to you one day, and let you look over it. I have noticed a few pieces by my great-grandfather, which would appear to be of only minor interest. There may be others. I have not gone in detail into the bulk of the material, but my will directs that this should eventually be done. At least I haven’t stuffed my papers away at the top of a ruined tower. Incidentally, were Lord Ampersand properly acquainted with the chronicles of our family, he would know that the North Tower has more than once before been made a repository of what may be called treasures. Including a beautiful maiden, Charles. A Baron Digitt is said to have incarcerated such a one there in the interest of most reprehensible designs upon her.’
    ‘Do tell me,’ Charles said – rashly, since he had no desire at all to hear this murky family legend. Now Miss Digitt made quite a thing of it – and lent it, moreover, a very rosy and sentimental colouring. In a way, Archie had been right about her; she had a simple-minded side, and it lay in the direction of romantic imaginings. A designing rascal – it occurred to Charles – would have little difficulty in turning her silly old head. The oddity of this being all mixed up with a decidedly astringent personality so interested Charles that he quite forgot to ask what other treasures the North Tower of Treskinnick Castle was