over to where Celia was sitting. "Is that what you've done?" he asked.
"Not at all," she replied. "I said "if."'
"Would you do that, Mr. Strange?" Margaret inquired. Just supposing you heard weird sounds and things?"
"No, I don't think I should," he said. "I'm afraid I haven't much opinion of village policemen."
"My husband hasn't either," Celia said. She heard a latchkey grate in the lock. "Here he is!" she said. "Is that you, Charles?"
"I'm not quite sure," came the answer. "It used to be, but since the experiences of the last ten minutes…'
"Good heavens, you haven't seen the ghost, have you?" cried Margaret.
Charles appeared in the doorway, minus his shoes. Over his shoulder Peter said, grinning: "He encountered a little mud, that's all."
"If you want to know the truth," said Charles, "I have narrowly escaped death by drowning in quicksands. Thank you, yes, and don't overdo the soda! Too much of water hast thou, poor Charles Malcolm."
"Oh, I know! You must have found that boggy patch," said Margaret.
"I trust it was not the cesspool," Mrs. Bosanquet said, in mild concern.
"So do I," Charles said. "That thought had not so far occurred to me, but - but I do hope it wasn't."
"Take heart," said Strange, setting down his glass. "I think your cesspool is more likely to be down near the river." He went up to Celia, and held out his hand. "I'm sure you're longing to get to bed, Mrs. Malcolm, so I'll say good-night."
He took his leave of them all. Peter escorted him to the front door, and when the two of them had left the room Charles said: "Well, of all the miserable conspirators commend me to you three! I should think by to-morrow the whole countryside will know that something has happened here."
"Really, Charles!" Mrs. Bosanquet expostulated. "It is true that I was about to make a reference to what happened last night, but I am sure I covered it up most naturally.,
"Dear Aunt," said Charles frankly, "not one of you would have deceived an oyster."
Peter came back into the room. "You seem to be getting very thick with Strange," he said to his sister. "Did you happen to find out what he is, or anything about him?"
"He's a surveyor," said Charles, finishing what was left of his whisky and soda.
"A surveyor?" echoed Margaret. "How do you know? Did he tell you so?"
"To the deductive mind," said Charles airily, "his profession was obvious from his knowledge of the probable whereabouts of our cesspool."
"Ass!" said Celia. "Come on up to bed. What does it matter what he is? He's nice, that's all I know."
It was two hours later when Charles came downstairs again, and he had changed into a tweed suit, and was wearing rubber-soled shoes. Peter was already in the library, reading by the light of one lamp. He looked up as Charles came in. "Celia asleep?" he asked.
"She was when I left her; but I've trod on nineteen creaking boards since then. Have you been round the house?"
"I have, and I defy anyone to get in without us hearing."
Charles went across to draw the heavy curtains still more closely together over the windows. "If Strange really means to try and get in to-night, he won't risk it for another hour or two," he prophesied. "Hanged if I can make that fellow out!"
"From what I could gather," Peter said, "he did his best to pump Margaret. Seemed to want to find out how we were getting on here."
Charles grunted, and drew a chair up to the desk and proceeded to study a brief which had been sent on from town that morning. Peter retired into his book again, and for a long while no sound broke the silence save the crackle of the papers under Charles' hand, and the measured tick of the old grandfather clock in the hall. At last Peter came to the end of his novel, and closed it. He yawned, and looked at his wrist-watch. "Good Lord! two o'clock already! Do we sit here till breakfast-time? I've an idea I shan't feel quite so fresh to-morrow night."
Charles pushed his papers from him with a short sigh of exasperation.
"Not at all," she replied. "I said "if."'
"Would you do that, Mr. Strange?" Margaret inquired. Just supposing you heard weird sounds and things?"
"No, I don't think I should," he said. "I'm afraid I haven't much opinion of village policemen."
"My husband hasn't either," Celia said. She heard a latchkey grate in the lock. "Here he is!" she said. "Is that you, Charles?"
"I'm not quite sure," came the answer. "It used to be, but since the experiences of the last ten minutes…'
"Good heavens, you haven't seen the ghost, have you?" cried Margaret.
Charles appeared in the doorway, minus his shoes. Over his shoulder Peter said, grinning: "He encountered a little mud, that's all."
"If you want to know the truth," said Charles, "I have narrowly escaped death by drowning in quicksands. Thank you, yes, and don't overdo the soda! Too much of water hast thou, poor Charles Malcolm."
"Oh, I know! You must have found that boggy patch," said Margaret.
"I trust it was not the cesspool," Mrs. Bosanquet said, in mild concern.
"So do I," Charles said. "That thought had not so far occurred to me, but - but I do hope it wasn't."
"Take heart," said Strange, setting down his glass. "I think your cesspool is more likely to be down near the river." He went up to Celia, and held out his hand. "I'm sure you're longing to get to bed, Mrs. Malcolm, so I'll say good-night."
He took his leave of them all. Peter escorted him to the front door, and when the two of them had left the room Charles said: "Well, of all the miserable conspirators commend me to you three! I should think by to-morrow the whole countryside will know that something has happened here."
"Really, Charles!" Mrs. Bosanquet expostulated. "It is true that I was about to make a reference to what happened last night, but I am sure I covered it up most naturally.,
"Dear Aunt," said Charles frankly, "not one of you would have deceived an oyster."
Peter came back into the room. "You seem to be getting very thick with Strange," he said to his sister. "Did you happen to find out what he is, or anything about him?"
"He's a surveyor," said Charles, finishing what was left of his whisky and soda.
"A surveyor?" echoed Margaret. "How do you know? Did he tell you so?"
"To the deductive mind," said Charles airily, "his profession was obvious from his knowledge of the probable whereabouts of our cesspool."
"Ass!" said Celia. "Come on up to bed. What does it matter what he is? He's nice, that's all I know."
It was two hours later when Charles came downstairs again, and he had changed into a tweed suit, and was wearing rubber-soled shoes. Peter was already in the library, reading by the light of one lamp. He looked up as Charles came in. "Celia asleep?" he asked.
"She was when I left her; but I've trod on nineteen creaking boards since then. Have you been round the house?"
"I have, and I defy anyone to get in without us hearing."
Charles went across to draw the heavy curtains still more closely together over the windows. "If Strange really means to try and get in to-night, he won't risk it for another hour or two," he prophesied. "Hanged if I can make that fellow out!"
"From what I could gather," Peter said, "he did his best to pump Margaret. Seemed to want to find out how we were getting on here."
Charles grunted, and drew a chair up to the desk and proceeded to study a brief which had been sent on from town that morning. Peter retired into his book again, and for a long while no sound broke the silence save the crackle of the papers under Charles' hand, and the measured tick of the old grandfather clock in the hall. At last Peter came to the end of his novel, and closed it. He yawned, and looked at his wrist-watch. "Good Lord! two o'clock already! Do we sit here till breakfast-time? I've an idea I shan't feel quite so fresh to-morrow night."
Charles pushed his papers from him with a short sigh of exasperation.
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