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Chapter IX

           “Ihaveapuzzledfeelingabouther.ThisafternoonIfoundsomemanuscriptpushedbehindabookonahighshelfinthelibrary.Angussaidhehadhiddenittherebecauseitwasasavagestoryhedidnotwishmetoread.ItwasthehistoryofthefeudbetweenIanRedHandandDarkMalcolmoftheGlen.DarkMalcolm’schildwascalledWeeBrownElspethhundredsofyearsago—fivehundred,Ithink.ItmakesmefeelsobewilderedwhenIremembertheoneIplayedwith.”

           “Itwasabloodystory,”hesaid.“IhearditonlyafewdaysbeforewemetatSirIan’shouseinLondon.”

           Thatmademerecallsomething.

           “WasthatwhyyoustartedwhenItoldyouaboutElspeth?”Iasked.

           “Yes.Perhapstheoneyouplayedwithwasalittledescendantwhohadinheritedhername,”heanswered,atriflehurriedly.“IconfessIwasstartledforamoment.”

           Iputmyhanduptomyforeheadandrubbeditunconsciously.Icouldnothelpseeingawoesomepicture.

           “Poorlittlesoul,withthebloodpouringfromherheartandherbrownhairspreadoverherdeadfather’sbreast!”Istopped,becauseafaintmemorycamebacktome.“Mine,”Istammered—“mine—howstrange!—hadagreatstainontheembroideriesofherdress.Shelookedatit—andlooked.Shelookedasifshedidn’tlikeit—asifshedidn’tunderstandhowitcamethere.Shecovereditwithfernsandbluebells.”

           IfeltasifIwerebeingdrawnawayintoadream.Imadeasuddenefforttocomeback.Iceasedrubbingmyforeheadanddroppedmyhand,sittingupright.

           “ImustaskAngusandJeantotellmeabouther,”Isaid.

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