for hours, Tony hiding in a ditch near the front gate, Robert at the
back. The gossip of Miss Arkwright's nocturnal motoring had reached
their ears, and they had built something on this. But never a motor had
they seen approach The Quiet House. One dreadful night they watched till
dawn broke clear and stark, but two colds in the head were all that came
to birth. Their watchings were a failure.

Miss Arkwright and "Billy" might never have existed. The servants were
useless. Only Forbes and the gardener issued from The Quiet House,
after their day's work was over: both were dumb. Incorruptible, too, for
when the ingenious Tony produced a pencil and paper, meeting the
gardener on the road as if by chance, holding half-a-crown for a lure,
the man made signs that he could not use a pencil. Forbes was of stouter
stuff. Tony waylaid him one evening at half past nine. Thoroughly
disheartened by this time, regretting that he had offered the gardener
so small a sum (for he had afterward imagined that the man might have
been playing a part), Tony unmasked his batteries. "Look here, my man,"
he said bluntly, "you are a servant at The Quiet House. I want some
information and am willing to pay for it. If you'll just write down
answers to a few questions I'll give you a five-pound note." Forbes'
eyes glistened, and he took the pencil. Tony's heart leaped as he saw
him diligently scribing. He snatched the paper and read, "I am sorry,
sir, but I can not write." Tony swore, as Forbes passed meekly on. He
was not used to being beaten by a servant.

To-day they were at the vicarage for tea, and tea alone. The hospitable
vicar had suggested dinner--lunch as a _pis-aller_. But his wife said,
"No," and he was obliged to submit. The previous dinner had caused
domestic friction, and Mrs. Peters did not mean to run any further
risks. She was a lady who had the not wholly unworthy wish to make a
fair show in the flesh: they entertained seldom, but when they did
entertain she was resolved to do things well. Soup, chicken (boiled or
roast), cold lamb (palpably uncut and not an economical remnant to bring
the blush), at least three sweets, and certainly cheese-straws,--these
were the least a self-respecting woman could offer to the vicarage
guests. The vicar, being a sensible man, would have been quite pleased
to "present" (like Mr. Frohman) a simple meal. Soup, a joint with the
usual supporters of potatoes and boiled celery--his own failing--a
b