nomous little brute of a boy; and they must be dashed hard up, because
they have only one servant in their enormous house, and a single
gardener on a place that needs a dozen. But it seems that Scarlett has
refused several big offers both to sell and let. Heaven knows why.
Perhaps the man's mad. Anyhow, that's all I can tell you at present.
They say it's no good hoping Scarlett will part. But I might find out
_why_ he won't, if that's any use."

"It isn't," I answered. "But thanks, all the same. How did you get hold
of this information so soon?"

"Very simply," said Jim. "I ran over to the nearest town, Dawlish, in
the car, and had a pow-wow with an estate agent, as if I were wanting
the house myself. I'm just back."

"You really are good!" I exclaimed, rather grudgingly, for Grandmother
and I always suffered in changing our opinions of people, as snakes must
suffer when they change their skins.

"I'd do a lot more than that for you, you know!" he said.

I did know. He had already done more--much more. But my only response
was to ring off. That was safest!

Next morning Terry Burns and I took the first train to Devonshire, and
at Dawlish hired a taxi for Dun Moat, which is about twelve miles from
there.

We were going to beard the Scarlett lion in his den!

CHAPTER V

THE KNITTING WOMAN OF DUN MOAT

"I must and _shall_ have this place!" Terry said, as our humble taxi
drove through the glorious old park, and came in sight of the house.

There were the old-world gardens; the statues; the fountains (it was a
detail that they didn't fount!); there were the white peacocks
(moulting); there was the moat so crammed with water-lilies that if the
Scarletts had eaten the carp, they would never be missed. There were the
"exquisite oriels," and above all, there was the twisted chimney!

An air of tragic neglect hung over everything. The grass needed mowing;
the flowers grew as they liked. Glass was even missing from several
windows. Still, it was miraculously the twin of the place we had
described in our embarrassingly perfect "ad."

As we stood in front of the enormous, nail-studded door, and Terry
pressed again and again an electric bell (the one modern touch about the
place), he had the air of waiting a signal to go "over the top."

"You look fierce enough to bayonet fifty Boches off your own bat!" I
whispered.

"Lady Scarlett _is_ a Boche, isn't she?" he mumbled back. And just
then--after we'd rung te