ner.

The back door of The Trellis House, as the quaint-looking, long, low
building to the right was incongruously named, opened into the
stable-yard and by the door was a bench. Timmy walked boldly across the
yard and established himself on the bench and his dog, Flick, jumped up
and sat sedately by him. The little boy then took a small black book out
of his pocket. The book was called "The Crofton Boys" and Timmy had
chosen it because the name of the new tenant of The Trellis House was
Mrs. Crofton, a friend, as he was aware, of his godfather, Godfrey
Radmore. He wondered if she had any boys.

The two men, busy with big new brooms, came up close to where Timmy was
sitting. When the child, obviously "one of the gentry," had walked into
the stable-yard, they had abruptly stopped talking; but now, seeing that
he was reading intently, and apparently quite uninterested in what they
were doing, they again began speaking to one another, or rather one of
them, a hard-bitten, shrewd-looking man, much the older of the two, began
talking in what was, though Timmy was not aware of it, a Cockney dialect.

"You won't find 'er a bad 'un to work for, m'lad. I speak of folks as I
find them. I'm not one to take any notice of queer tales!"

"Queer tales. What be the queer tales, Mister Piper?"

Timmy knew this last speaker. He was the baker's rather sharp younger
son, and Mrs. Crofton had just engaged him as handy man.

The older man lowered his voice a little, but Timmy, who, while his eyes
seemed glued to the pages of the book he held open, was yet listening
with all his ears, heard what followed quite clearly.

"It ain't for me to spread ill tales after what I've told you, eh? But
the Colonel's death was a reg'lar tragedy, 'twas, and some there were who
said that 'is widder wasn't exactly sorry. 'E were a melancholy cove for
any young woman to 'ave to live with. But there, as my old mother used to
say, 'any old barn-door can keep out the draught!'"

The younger man looked up:--"What sort o' tragedy?" he asked.

"The Colonel pizened 'isself, and the question was--did 'e do it o'
purpose? Some said yes, and some said no. I was in it by a manner of
speaking."

"You was in it?"

The boy left off working, and gazed at the other eagerly:--"D'you mean
you saw him do it?"

"I was the first to see 'im in his agony--I calls that being in it. And
I was called upon to give evidence at the inquest held on the corpse."

The man look