"One finds them in these parts. Hollowed out during the glacial
period. Always just about twilight that one hears it. Rush of air
caused by sudden sinking of the temperature. That's how all these
sort of ideas get started."
The Doctor, having lit his pipe, resumed his stride.
"I don't say," continued the Doctor, "that it would have happened
without her coming. Undoubtedly it was she who supplied the
necessary psychic conditions. There was that about her--a sort of
atmosphere. That quaint archaic French of hers--King Arthur and the
round table and Merlin; it seemed to recreate it all. An artful
minx, that is the only explanation. But while she was looking at
you, out of that curious aloofness of hers--"
The Doctor left the sentence uncompleted.
"As for old Littlecherry," the Doctor began again quite suddenly,
"that's his speciality--folklore, occultism, all that flummery. If
you knocked at his door with the original Sleeping Beauty on your
arm he'd only fuss round her with cushions and hope that she'd had a
good night. Found a seed once--chipped it out of an old fossil, and
grew it in a pot in his study. About the most dilapidated weed you
ever saw. Talked about it as if he had re-discovered the Elixir of
Life. Even if he didn't say anything in actually so many words,
there was the way he went about.
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