"Oh--I don't know," replied Viner vaguely. "Fancy, I suppose, and
imagination, and all that sort of thing--invention, you know, and so on.
But--life! Do you really think such things happen in real life, as those
we've been reading about?"
"I don't think anything about it," retorted Miss Penkridge sturdily. "I'm
sure of it. I never had a novel yet, nor heard one read to me, that was
half as strong as it might have been!"
"Queer thing, one never hears or sees of these things, then!" exclaimed
Viner. "I never have!--and I've been on this planet thirty years."
"That sort of thing hasn't come your way, Richard," remarked Miss
Penkridge sententiously. "And you don't read the popular Sunday
newspapers. I do! They're full of crime of all sorts. So's the world. And
as to mysteries--well, I've known of two or three in my time that were
much more extraordinary than any I've ever read of in novels. I should
think so!"
Viner dropped into his easy-chair and stretched his legs.
"Such as--what?" he asked.
"Well," answered Miss Penkridge, regarding her knitting with appraising
eyes, "there was a case that excited great interest when your poor mother
and I were mere girls.
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