The old man peered into his empty mug with a glance of such eloquence
that I could not mistake its import. Accordingly, I caused it to be
refilled, thus preventing any check in the flow of his eloquence, and:

"In what way?" he asked, his voice raised in a high quavering note. He
laughed, and his laughter was pitched in the same time-worn key. "That
doctor is a blot on the country. When Sir Burnham was alive--and afore
he went to Egypt--it was different; although, mind you, it's my
belief--oh, ah, it is indeed--that him coming here had as much to do
with Sir Burnham's death as the loss of his son what I told you
about. That's my belief."

I took a sip from my replenished mug, and:

"I cannot understand," I said, "why the presence of Dr. Greefe should
have brought about the death of Sir Burnham or the death of anybody
else."

"No," said the old man, cunningly; "you can't, eh? Well, there be
things none of us can understand and things some of us can. If you
ever clap eyes on that there black doctor, like enough this'll be one
of the things you'll be able to understand."

With the idea of drawing yet more intimate confidences:

"You suggest that Dr. Greefe had some hold upon the late Sir Burnham?"

"I don't suggest nothing."

"Some hold upon Lady Burnham, then?"