Everybody dies, don't they?

Everybody come back.

Isn't that so?

You tried to get into the locked draw today, didn't you?

How do that they'd come back, mother?

What's the secret? The Clock by W.F. Harvey.

I liked your description of the people at the Pension.

I can just picture that rather sinister Miss Cornelius with her toupee and clinking bangles.

I don't wonder you felt frightened that night when you found her sleepwalking in the corridor, but after a why shouldn't she sleepwalk? As to the movements of the furniture in the lounge on the Sunday, you are, I suppose, in an earthquake zone, though an earthquake seems too big in explanation for the

ring of that little handbell on the mantelpiece. It's rather as if our parlour-maid, another

new one, were to call a stray elephant to account for the teapot we found broken yesterday.

You have at least escaped the eternal problem of maids in Italy?

Yes, my dear, I most certainly believe you. I have never had experiences quite like yours,

but your mention of Miss Cornelius has reminded me of something rather similar that happened

nearly twenty years ago, soon after I left school.

I was staying with my aunt in Hampstead. You remember her, I expect, or if not her poodle,

monsieur, that she used to make perform such pathetic tricks. There was another guest whom I had

never met before, a Mrs. Caleb.

She lived in Lewis, and had been staying with my aunt for about a fortnight,

recuperating after a series of domestic upheavals, which had culminated in her two servants leaving her at an hour's notice,

without any reason, according to Mrs. Caleb.

But I wondered, I had never seen the maids, I had to Mrs. Caleb, but I wondered. I had never seen the maids.

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