assure
you it's as much as my job is worth to disregard it."

"D'you mean to say not a soul is allowed inside the House?"

"Not a soul."

"Well, Mr. Loudon, I'm going to tell you a queer thing, which I think
you ought to know. When I was taking a walk the other night--your
Belgian wouldn't let me into the policies, but I went down the
glen--what's that they call it? the Garple Dean--I got round the back
where the old ruin stands and I had a good look at the House. I tell
you there was somebody in it."

"It would be Spittal, who acts as caretaker."

"It was not. It was a woman. I saw her on the verandah."

The candid grey eyes were looking straight at Dickson, who managed to
bring his own shy orbs to meet them. He thought that he detected a
shade of hesitation. Then Mr. Loudon got up from his chair and stood
on the hearthrug looking down at his visitor. He laughed, with some
embarrassment, but ever so pleasantly.

"I really don't know what you will think of me, Mr. McCunn. Here are
you, coming to do us all a kindness, and lease that infernal white
elephant, and here have I been steadily hoaxing you for the last five
minutes. I humbly ask your pardon. Set it down to the loyalty of an
old family lawyer. Now, I am going to tell you the truth and take you
into our confidence, for I know we are safe with you. The Kennedys
are--always have been--just a wee bit queer. Old inbred stock, you
know. They will produce somebody like poor Mr. Quentin, who was as
sane as you or me, but as a rule in every generation there is one
member of the family--or more--who is just a little bit---" and he
tapped his forehead. "Nothing violent, you understand, but just not
quite 'wise and world-like,' as the old folk say. Well, there's a
certain old lady, an aunt of Mr. Quentin and his sisters, who has
always been about tenpence in the shilling. Usually she lives at
Bournemouth, but one of her crazes is a passion for Huntingtower, and
the Kennedys have always humoured her and had her to stay every spring.
When the House was shut up that became impossible, but this year she
took such a craving to come back, that Lady Morewood asked me to
arrange it. It had to be kept very quiet, but the poor old thing is
perfectly harmless, and just sits and knits with her maid and looks out
of the seaward windows. Now you see why I can't take you there
to-morrow. I have to get rid of the old lady, who in any case was
travelling south early