"Is Mrs. Franklin interested in her husband's work?" I asked. Nurse Craven tossed her head contemptuously.

"Oh, it's a good deal too technical for her. She's not at all a clever woman, you know, Captain Hastings."

"No, I suppose not."

"Dr. Franklin's work, of course, can only be appreciated by someone who knows something about medicine. He's a very clever man indeed, you know. Brilliant. Poor man, I feel so sorry for him."

"Sorry for him?"

"Yes. I've seen it happen so often. Marrying the wrong type of woman, I mean."

"You think she's the wrong type for him?"

"Well, don't you? They've nothing at all in common."

"He seems very fond of her," I said. "Very attentive to her wishes and all that." Nurse Craven laughed rather disagreeably.

"She sees to that, all right!"

"You think she trades on her - on her ill health?" I asked doubtfully. Nurse Craven laughed.

"There isn't much you could teach her about getting her own way. Whatever her ladyship wants happens. Some women are like that - clever as a barrel full of monkeys. If anyone opposes them, they just lie back and shut their eyes and look ill and pathetic, or else they have a nerve storm - but Mrs. Franklin's the pathetic type. Doesn't sleep all night and is all white and exhausted in the morning."

"But she is really an invalid, isn't she?" I asked, rather startled. Nurse Craven gave me a rather peculiar glance. She said drily:

"Oh, of course," and then turned the subject rather abruptly. She asked me if it was true that I had been here long ago, in the first war.

"Yes, that's quite true."

She lowered her voice.

"There was a murder here, wasn't there? So one of the maids was telling me. An old lady?"

"Yes."

"And you were there at the time?"

"I was."

She gave a slight shiver. She said:

"That explains it, doesn't it?"

"Explains what?"

She gave me a quick sideways glance.

"The - the atmosphere of the place. Don't you feel it? I do. Something wrong, if you know what I mean?"

I was silent a moment considering. Was it true what she had just said? Did the fact that death by violence - by malice aforethought - had taken place in a certain spot leave its impression on that spot so strongly that it was perceptible after many years? Psychic people said so. Did Styles definitely bear traces of that event that had occurred so long ago? Here, within these walls, in these gardens, thoughts of murder had lingered and grown stronger and had at last come to fruition in the final act. Did they still taint the air?

Nurse Craven broke in on my thoughts by saying abruptly.

"I was in a house where there was a murder case once. I've never forgotten it. One doesn't, you know. One of my patients. I had to give evidence and everything. Made me feel quite queer. It's a nasty experience for a girl."