"Well, Julian," said Mrs. Davies in her most determined tones. "I think it's your plain duty to call at once."

The Vicar of Denmore sighed, and laid down his paper on the breakfast-table.

"But, my dear," he protested mildly, "we know nothing of the new people at the Manor. We don't even know if they have taken possession. If it is true that extensive alterations are going on, they can hardly be there yet. Why, it's only a week since they took the place."

"Julian," returned his wife, "there is no use in arguing the point. It's quite time that all the mystery about the Manor was cleared up. You know I hate gossip...."

She paused. The vicar took a drink of coffee.

"You know," resumed Mrs. Davies very distinctly, "that I hate gossip...."

"Of course, of course, my dear," agreed the vicar hastily.

"But it is impossible not to know that the whole neighborhood is talking. I'm not asking you to pay a ceremonious call. If the people turn out to be German spies.... The feeling of everybody is that the sooner somebody finds out just what is happening at the Manor, the better. And you've got the best excuse."

Mr. Davies got up and walked about the room.

"Really, my dear," he said at last in what was (for him) quite a fierce tone, "if you're asking me to do this out of mere idle curiosity...."

"Idle fiddlesticks! Do remember there's a war on, Julian. When a great big house like that suddenly becomes full of people from nobody knows where, who never seem to come out of the grounds, and who certainly don't deal with the local tradesmen, what is one to think?"

"That they import their provisions from London," suggested the vicar.

"But they don't. The only London van that comes here is Harrods'—the FitzPeters deal there, but I know they don't call at the Manor."

"Did Miss FitzPeter tell you that?"

"No. She doesn't seem very interested in the concerns of the village. She could or would tell me nothing.... But I stopped Harrods' van in the village and asked the driver. The whole business is most suspicious. So we think—I think that it's quite time you went up to the Manor and found out whether they're going to use the Manor pew."

The vicar sighed deeply.

"Very well, my dear," he said with resignation. "Since you insist. But I fear my talents do not lie very much in the direction of private detection. What is the nature of the gos ... the—er—tales that are going about in the village?"

"Oh, just vague and exaggerated rumors. You see, nobody has been allowed inside the grounds at all. There haven't even been any letters for the people yet. I was at the post-office yesterday and Mrs. Rudd was most aggrieved about it. Of course everybody thinks they're spies, or horrible plotters, or something. Otherwise, why should they behave like this? Bobby Myers says that he and another boy climbed over the fence and saw a lot of black men in the garden, but that I do not believe. I have seldom found Bobby truthful."

"I fully expect that I shall find something in the nature of a mare's nest," said the vicar. "But perhaps I can do some good by reminding these people that a village is always a hotbed of—that is, that people will talk, and that...." He broke off, realizing that to express tactfully just what he wanted to say was beyond his power. "All the same," he finished, "if there is anything wrong, I am afraid that so very shortsighted an emissary as I will prove of little use."

"Never mind about that, Julian. I shall do all that part of it—as if I could trust you! You are just my excuse, that's all."

"But, my dear, is it quite usual ...?"

Mrs. Davies snorted.

"Is it usual to shut oneself up as these people are doing—especially in war-time? Anyhow, usual or not, I'm going. For a whole week there's been something mysterious going on in that house and I mean to find out what it is before anything dreadful comes of it. I'll be ready soon after lunch, Julian."

Later in the day the reluctant clergyman and his far from reluctant wife turned in at the drive gates of Denmore Manor. They walked along the thick and somber avenue, at the end of which the trees suddenly ceased altogether and the drive gave a half-turn before sweeping on to the house. There was no one visible except a far-away gardener, of whom so little could be seen that it was quite impossible to judge whether he were a suspicious-looking character or not. The visitors looked round them at the smooth, green lawns and the riot of flowers, and the vicar sighed once more—this time in content.

"I should like to know," observed his wife with asperity, "how many men of military age it took to do this in a week? Why, the place was a wilderness. It had not been looked after for two years, and even in peace-time it took a small army to look after it. However, I suppose you can get things done even in war-time if you're rich enough and unpatriotic enough."

She marched resolutely up the steps, evidently more firmly convinced of the righteousness of her mission than ever, and paused with a hand on the bell.

"All the windows are barred," she commented darkly, as the lattices which Eustace's Eastern taste had brought into being struck her questing eye. "Does that convey nothing to you?"

The vicar, who could not honestly have said that it conveyed anything very sinister to him, merely looked uncomfortable. Mrs. Davies pulled the bell-handle. The door opened with embarrassing suddenness to display two massive negroes, clad in uniforms of startling brightness. Inside the vestibule could be seen the magnificent Mustapha.

"My goodness!" said Mrs. Davies, shrinking back suddenly. "Blacks!! Bobby was right."

The major-domo bowed low and with a gesture invited them to enter; but the lady, who distrusted "blacks" fervently, left her husband to reply.

The vicar beamed vaguely in the direction of the doorway.

"Er—is Mr.—er—that is," he began feebly.

"Enter, O Master," said Mustapha, leading the way inside, "thou and thy woman with thee."

"Woman, indeed!" muttered Mrs. Davies in outraged tones as she followed them. "Woman!! A black...."

"My dear," urged the vicar in an earnest undertone. "It's probably only the Eastern way. I do not suppose he means any disrespect."

"I hope not, indeed.... Good Heavens!"

The newly decorated hall had burst suddenly on Mrs. Davies' vision, and her injured pride was forgotten in her amazement at the sight. The vicar, who could only discern a blaze of color, gazed too. Mustapha moved majestically across the hall and disappeared up the marble staircase.

"Julian," demanded Mrs. Davies, "are we dreaming? What has happened?"

The vicar, who had now managed to focus his myopic eyes, glanced at the wall opposite the front door, and gave a wail of anguish and horror.

"The tapestry!" he cried. "The great tapestry. They've taken it down. How could they?"

He went over to the wall where once the tapestry had been and gazed forlornly at it as though he hoped by some occult power of thought concentration to bring it back.

"Well," said Mrs. Davies acidly, "they are at least consistent. You could hardly expect tapestries to go with this kind of thing." She was at the foot of the stairs, examining the knob of the heavily gilded banisters. It was studded with diamonds and completed with an enormous ruby worth about as much as the house. "Terrible pieces of glass stuck about everywhere. Dreadful sham orientalism; why, they've even had that fine old staircase taken down and marble put in instead. It looks more like a second-class restaurant than...." She wandered off on a tour of inspection; a moment later her voice was angrily upraised.

"What do you want, you shameless hussy? How dare you touch me? Go away. Do you hear me? Take your hands off me and go away.... Let me go, woman.... Julian! Julian!!"

The vicar rushed blindly in the direction of his wife's voice; his pince-nez fell off and flew wildly at the end of their cord. He stumbled over a divan, slithered across the marble floor and stood, panting and peering, at his wife's side. He found her, flushed and angry, standing at bay before a group of lovely and perplexed but very scantily clad female slaves, who had approached at Mustapha's command to conduct her to the women's quarters of the house. As the vicar arrived, the leader made another attempt to take Mrs. Davies' hand, and received from the angry lady a stinging smack across the face. Instantly she and her following prostrated themselves on the floor.

"My dear Hermia!" murmured the vicar.

"Julian," returned Mrs. Davies in a terrible voice, "this is no place for me, or for you either. Take me home at once. This"—she eyed the prostrate but shapely forms around her, and shuddered—"is worse than I could have imagined. I insist on your taking me home at once."

"But really, Hermia," said the vicar mildly, "I am sure this young lady ... perhaps in the East...." The leader of the slaves, taking heart of grace from the vicar's gentle tones, was rising to her feet; but meeting a glance of concentrated venom from his wife, she flopped back once more, appalled.

"East, indeed!" Mrs. Davies laughed scornfully. "Hussies from the stage, most likely. Of course you'll take their part, Julian. Men are all alike. I'm only thankful that I came with you to this place."

She swung round to depart and came face to face with Alf, who had ventured out to receive his first guests. He was in a state of great trepidation which the sound of Mrs. Davies' angry high-pitched voice did nothing to allay. It was a transformed Alf. He had compelled Eustace to take away all the wonderful but highly unusual garments with which he had stocked his master's wardrobe, and, explaining once more to his familiar how useless it was to be wholesale without at the same time being up-to-date, had commanded him to supply instead modern clothes suited to every requirement of his new position. He now appeared resplendent in a voluminous frock-coat, gray trousers, a stand-up collar of inordinate height and patent leather shoes. The whole effect was completed and rounded off by a very shiny top-hat.

This Alf at once removed. He stood nervously twisting it in his hands. Mrs. Davies, not knowing quite what to make of him, gave him a menacing glare.

"Good afternoon!" she said in threatening tones.

"Yes 'm," said Alf feebly.

"You, I suppose, are the butler. Is your master in?"

"Yes 'm ... I'm ... that is, 'e's ... er, I'm 'im," was the lucid reply. It conveyed nothing whatever to the lady. The vicar, however, who had realized from the top-hat that he could not be speaking to a butler, rose to the occasion.

"My name is Davies," he said courteously. "Er—my wife—I have called to—er—the Manor pew...."

Alf, feeling a shade happier, put his hat on again.

"Sit down, sir," he said. "Won't the lady take a chair—that is a—er—cushion?"

"I will not," snapped Mrs. Davies fiercely. "I am shocked and astonished at the things I have seen and the way I have been treated, and if you are responsible I demand an explanation, Mr.... Mr...."

"Ig ... Wentworth," supplied Alf, remembering at the last moment his change of name.

Once more he clutched his hat. It seemed to afford him moral support in dealing with this terrifying lady, and he clung to it for the remainder of the interview.

"Really, my dear, Mr. Higg-Wentworth can hardly be blamed for an error on the part of his ... er...."

The vicar's eyes rested with unclerical appreciation on the form of the recently smacked leader of the slaves. He wondered what her exact status in the establishment might be. Was she guest or servant? He decided not to risk it. "I am sure the—ah—young lady acted under a pure misapprehension."

His wife snorted.

"It is disgraceful, and their clothing is nothing short of immodest. Please send them away at once."

Alf gave an order to Mustapha, who translated it into Arabic. The slaves rose and after bowing low to Alf disappeared up the stairs with much swirling of draperies and jingling of anklets. Mrs. Davies averted her face, but the vicar's gaze followed them up the stairs until the last had disappeared.

Alf was feverishly anxious to make things right, and he turned on Mustapha.

"Look 'ere, Farr," he said sternly, "what's all this mean? Why was them girls bothering this lady?"

"Lord," said the steward, "verily it was supposed that this man had brought the woman hither to sell her unto thee, and for that reason...."

"What!" Mrs. Davies' voice and expression were such that even the imperturbable Mustapha broke off in alarm. Alf stammered out something unintelligible, but was cut short.

"You need say no more. I have heard and seen quite enough. I am ashamed to have set foot in such a place as this house has become. Dreadful!" She swept a glance of regal scorn round the hall. "Let me tell you, Mr. Higg-Wentworth, or whatever you call yourself, that you have not heard the last of this, nor those shameless undressed hussies of yours either. This is a law-abiding English village, where such things can be stopped I feel sure. I shall go straight to Sir Edward FitzPeter and see if something cannot be done. Come, Julian."

She stalked out. The vicar, perplexed and unhappy and far from being convinced that his wife was not making a fool of herself, followed.

Alf watched them out of sight, wondering miserably whether it was still too late to do something to retrieve the situation; then as Mrs. Davies disappeared with a jerk round the corner of the drive, he crammed his hat down on to his head with fierce despair, regardless of the havoc he was causing to its beautiful nap, and wandered dispiritedly up the stairs to Bill.

That warrior was far from being dispirited. He was lying on a divan with an expression of utter content. He was even more gayly clad than Alf; but he was now taking his ease, and his coat was lying neatly folded on a cushion near by, revealing to the gaze in all its glory a waistcoat which would have occupied the place of honor at any exhibition of futurist art. By his right elbow stood a tiny inlaid table on which was a foaming flagon of beer. At his feet, looking like a brilliant, shimmering heap of silk, lay yet another of the army of female slaves. She lay in an attitude of sinuous ease, but her dark eyes were fixed on Bill's face with something of the adoring expression of a faithful dog.

"'Ullo," began Mr. Montmorency (nÉ Grant) with a cheerful grin. "'Ere you are. 'Ave a drink with me. This 'ere girl"—he jerked an expressive thumb at his attendant—"she's a fair wonder, she is. Mr. Farr, 'e's told 'er off special to look after me, an' she don't 'arf take a pride in 'er work neither. She don't understand a word I say, but it don't matter. She just fetches me another every time I finish, an' seems to like me better the more I make 'er do. Never 'ad such a time in all me little life. Lucy, I call 'er."

"Seems fond o' you," said Alf gloomily.

"She is that. Thinks I'm no end of a nut. Well, 'ow did you get on with the nobility an' the gentry? 'Oo was it came? None o' your girl's people, I s'pose."

Alf shook his head.

"That's all up," he said. "None of 'er people won't never come to this 'ouse."

"Rats!" said Bill. "Why, we ain't been 'ere more'n two days, any'ow, an' 'ere's somebody been to see us already. Why, it's on'y neighborly for them to look us up. 'Oo was it to-day, any'ow?"

"The parson and 'is wife."

"Very good, for a start," commented Bill.

"'Tisn't good at all," Alf retorted hotly. "I tell you, Bill Grant...."

"Montmorency," inserted Bill in gentle parenthesis.

" ... It's all up."

"What's all up?"

"We are. This place. It won't do. I've—I've mucked it all up, I s'pose. Comes of you not bein' there."

"That's right. Put it all on to me! I've got to trot round like a bloomin' nursemaid, 'ave I, to keep you out of mischief. What 'ave you been an' done, any'ow?

"This 'ere parson's wife, she's a fair terror. She thinks we ain't respectable, an' she's off to get ole Sir FitzPeter to fire us out of 'ere."

"'E can't."

"No, but it knocks the bottom out o' me gettin' 'is daughter. 'Twasn't much of a chance before, but it's all up now."

Bill considered.

"Why don't the ole girl think we're respectable?" he asked at last.

"'Cause of the blinkin' silly way Eustace 'as done the place up. An' she saw a lot o' them girls, an' she didn't like the way they was dressed."

"Well, I don't know as I'm altogether surprised at that." Bill's eyes rested thoughtfully on Lucy's bare leg, ornamented with a flashing anklet. "You couldn't 'ardly expect it, could you? But we can easy change that, you know. It'll mean you 'avin Eustace up again, but after all that's 'is look-out. 'E ought to get things right first time. If 'e won't, 'e must take the consequences. You can 'ave all these girls dressed in nice black dresses, an' caps an' aprons—except my Lucy o' course. They won't change you, will they, my dear?"

He stirred Lucy gently with his foot, and she sprang up ready to perform her usual task. Finding her master's flagon still full, she sank back again into her place with a puzzled but still adoring smile.

"What's the good ..." began Alf.

"An' then," pursued Bill, taking no notice whatever of the interruption, "we'll 'ave some furniture in, an' about time too. Then what can the parson's wife 'ave to say, eh?"

"But what ..." began Alf.

"Mind you," Bill continued serenely, "you'll 'ave to tell Eustace just exactly what you want. It's no good leaving it to 'im—we know 'ow much good 'is ideas are. Tell 'im what you wants an' see you gets it."

"Yes, but 'ow much good will that do? The ole woman's gone off ravin' like a blinkin' lunatic, an' once she gets round to ole FitzPeter all the furniture in the world won't do us no good. 'Ow can we stop 'er tellin' 'im?"

"Easy enough," said Bill with unabated confidence. "Strike 'er dumb!"

"Eh?" Alf's eyes and mouth opened to their utmost extent.

"Tell Eustace to make 'er dumb. Then she can't tell anybody anything."

"She could write it," said Alf, after consideration.

"Paralyze 'er, then," retorted Bill callously.

"Even then, 'er 'usband'd know. 'Sides, that ain't goin' to do us no good. The neighbor'ood 'ud be bound to notice it if she came 'ere an' then went dumb an' paralyzed—specially if we 'ad to do it to the parson too."

"True for you, Alf—it wouldn't make us what you might call popular."

Bill took a long drink, to assist thought. The faithful Lucy uncurled herself once more and left the room with the empty flagon.

"Good girl," said Bill, looking after her. "She'd make a fine wife, she would. I ain't goin' to 'ave no cap an' apron put on my Lucy, Alf; she can keep out o' the way when there's company about, but I'm goin' to keep 'er dressed as she is, see?"

"Seems to me," Alf answered crossly, "if you don't 'urry up an' think what's to be done, you an' your Lucy'll 'ave to part company any'ow. Once that ole woman gets to Ditchwater Park she'll make these 'ere parts too 'ot to 'old us. An' she must be 'arf way there by now."

Bill gave a scornful laugh.

"I'm ashamed of you, Alf, gettin' the wind up like that. I am, really. Tell you what to do. Tell Eustace to fix 'er whenever she tries to talk or write about us—she an' the parson, too. Then she can't do no 'arm to anybody! 'Ow's that for a scheme, eh?"

Bill put his thumbs in the armholes of his pictorial waistcoat; Alf stared in speechless admiration.

"Lumme," he said at last. "You do think o' things. But 'ow d'you know that Eustace can do it?"

Bill held up the old lady's brother's copy of the Arabian Nights.

"I been readin' this," he said, "seems to be just the sort o' thing they used to like doing in them times. I tell you, I'm glad it's us as 'ave got Eustace an' not the 'Un, because ..."

Fearing that Bill was about to bring up once more his favorite scheme for using Eustace to kidnap the Kaiser and end the war Alf cut him short by producing his talisman. Lucy, entering the room at the same moment with a full tankard of beer for her lord, caught sight of the Button and instantly prostrated herself. The tankard reached the ground just before she did, with the result that Lucy's clothes and hair and Lucy's devout forehead weltered in a foaming pool of wasted beer.

Alf gasped.

"Tripped over the mat, I expect," he volunteered feebly.

"You silly owl," roared Bill, exasperated no less by the discomfort of his Hebe than by the waste of his drink. "Don't you know yet what 'appens if you bring out the Button in front of the servants? Down they goes an' down they stays. Put it away, quick, or you'll be drownin' the girl. 'Ere, Lucy, 'op it an' get dried."

Lucy, dripping with beer, fled, and Alf, looking rather sheepish, once again produced the Button.

He hesitated.

"You know," he said, "I 'ardly like to—I mean, we 'ad Eustace up on'y yesterday, you know. If we 'ave 'im again now won't 'e be fed up?"

"Let 'im," said Bill. "S'long as you don't ask 'im for a rook's egg, 'e can't turn nasty. An' any'ow you've got to 'ave 'im to swop the furniture, so 'e may as well do the two jobs together. And for 'eving's sake let's 'ave a few tasty pictures on the walls, an' some ornaments an' things. We want to make the place a bit 'omey."

"'Ave whatever you like," replied Alf. "You knows more about that sort o' thing than what I do."

He rubbed the Button.

* * * * * * *

Meanwhile, as the vicar and his wife had turned into the road at the Manor gates, the doctor's gardener, one Amos Goodwin, had chanced to be passing.

Amos was a sociable creature who measured his success in life by the amount of new and in some cases original gossip he managed to put into circulation. He was the most prolific purveyor of intimate domestic scandal in the neighborhood. Certainly he was the indispensable right-hand man of Mrs. Rudd the post-mistress, supplying her with the material on which she ran an informal Bureau of Unreliable Information. Amos had come past the Manor on the off-chance of seeing something which might suggest a plausible theory about the Manor mystery; but he was too good a journalist not to prefer to deal in the truth when he could get it; and the appearance of Mr. and Mrs. Davies actually leaving the suspicious premises held promise of a real and authentic "scoop"—if he could only hear what they were saying. He hobbled after the pair as quickly as he could, his long ear straining forward; but they swung off down the road at a pace that his rheumatic old legs could not hope to emulate. All the same, he had his reward; before she was out of earshot he heard Mrs. Davies' loud and piercing voice, remarking:

"Well, Julian, all I can say is that I consider the whole place a perfect scandal. Those black men, and the horrible women—ugh! The whole place looked more like a scene from 'Chu Chin Chow' than an English country house. And one thing I consider most suspicious...."

Amos could hear no more. But on his way home he stopped at the post office.