'To say truth,' said I, 'I have only seen some dim reference to the things in memoirs; and heard some traditions dimmer still, through my uncle (whom I think you knew).My uncle lived when he was a boy in the neighbourhood of St.Bride's;he has often told me of the avenue closed up and grown over with grass, the great gates never opened, the last lord and his old maid sister who lived in the back parts of the house, a quiet, plain, poor, hum-drum couple it would seem - but pathetic too, as the last of that stirring and brave house -and, to the country folk, faintly terrible from some deformed traditions.'
'Yes,' said Mr.Thomson.Henry Graeme Durie, the last lord, died in 1820; his sister, the Honourable Miss Katherine Durie, in '27; so much I know; and by what I have been going over the last few days, they were what you say, decent, quiet people and not rich.To say truth, it was a letter of my lord's that put me on the search for the packet we are going to open this evening.Some papers could not be found; and he wrote to Jack M'Brair suggesting they might be among those sealed up by a Mr.Mackellar.M'Brair answered, that the papers in question were all in Mackellar's own hand, all (as the writer understood) of a purely narrative character; and besides, said he, "I am bound not to open them before the year 1889." You may fancy if these words struck me: Iinstituted a hunt through all the M'Brair repositories; and at last hit upon that packet which (if you have had enough wine) I propose to show you at once.'