sion across the brown and yellow sands, they were at first more or less silent, rather as if they had been stunned. And certainly there had been something like a crack of thunder in a clear sky about the fulfilment of that forgotten superstition at the very time when they had most forgotten it; when the doctor and the priest had both filled their minds with rationalism as the photographer had filled his rooms with daylight. They might be as rationalistic as they liked; but in broad daylight the seventh heir had returned, and in broad daylight at the seventh hour he had perished.
"I'm afraid everybody will always believe in the Darnaway superstition now," said Martin Wood.
"I know one who won't," said the doctor sharply. "Why should I indulge in superstition because somebody else indulges in suicide?"
"You think poor Mr. Darnaway committed suicide?" asked the priest.
"I'm sure he committed suicide," replied the doctor.
"It is possible," agreed the other.
"He was quite alone up there, and he had a whole drug-store of poisons in the dark room. Besides, it's just the sort of thing that Darnaways do."
"You don't think there's anything in the fulfilment of the family curse?"
"Yes," said the doctor, "I believe in one family
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