But probably not the truth. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost. The doctor expected her to seize upon the subtle inference that there was something furtive, even criminal, in the manner the patient set this obligation upon humanity at large, to look after him in the event of his death. Sepulchre's church, where, in compliance with an old custom, it halted. The image of Major Alderley came into her mind. He was full of fabulous stories, not just tales of his own past in Rome but wonderful fables from the mysterious Orient and the ancient Greeks, old jokes and yarns that only he remembered.
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