"Francis was born," Mrs. Fairbank proceeds gravely, "at two o'clock in the
morning."
I begin to wonder whether my wife's intellect is going the way of the
landlord's intellect. "Is that all?" I ask.
"It is _not_ all," Mrs. Fairbank answers. "Francis Raven sits up on the
morning of his birthday because he is afraid to go to bed."
"And why is he afraid to go to bed?"
"Because he is in peril of his life."
"On his birthday?"
"On his birthday. At two o'clock in the morning. As regularly as the
birthday comes round."
There she stops. Has she discovered no more than that? No more thus far. I
begin to feel really interested by this time. I ask eagerly what it means?
Mrs. Fairbank points mysteriously to the chaise--with Francis Raven
(hitherto our hostler, now our coachman) waiting for us to get in. The
chaise has a seat for two in front, and a seat for one behind. My wife
casts a warning look at me, and places herself on the seat in front.
The necessary consequence of this arrangement is that Mrs. Fairbank sits
by the side of the driver during a journey of two hours and more. Need I
state the result? It would be an insult to your intelligence to state the
result. Let me offer you my place in the chaise. And let Francis Raven
tell his terrible story in his own words.