Mr. Peter Johnson, on the following morning, was indulging in the harmless occupation of practising mashie shots with a dozen golf balls over some shrubs upon the front lawn of the Great House, when Morton, his newly engaged butler who had arrived a few days before from a registry office at Norwich, sallied through the garden door, followed by a young lady. Mr. Johnson promptly abandoned his diversion and came forward.

“Miss Besant to see you, sir,” the servant announced.

Mr. Johnson, without committing himself to speech, exhibited a certain measure of cordiality. He held out a welcoming hand, which, after a moment’s hesitation, the girl accepted.

“I must apologise for coming in like this, Mr. Johnson,” she said. “Madame De Fourgenet, the lady to whom I am companion, insisted upon it.”

“I beg that you will not apologise,” was the civil reply. “I am very glad to see you. You are my opposite neighbour then, it seems.”

“We live at the Little House,” the young lady assented. “For over a year—all the time that the place has been empty, in fact—your gardener, Smith, has been accustomed to assist our one servant for half an hour each day, cutting wood or something of that sort. Madame has the strongest objection to having a stranger in the house, or even in the garden, and she sent me across to ask whether it were possible to make any arrangement by which we could continue to have the services of Smith for that time each day.”

Mr. Johnson made no immediate reply. He was exceedingly interested in the young lady, and he seemed to be carrying out a line of thought with regard to her. From the moment of her appearance her expression had not changed. Her tone, which was level and indifferent, was the tone of a person who had no concern in what she said; she spoke mechanically, as though choosing the readiest words with the sole object of concluding an unavoidable task. She was tall, inclined to be of full figure, paler than she ought to have been, living in the country, with eyes which seemed seldom fully open, masses of light brown hair brushed back from her forehead, and a mouth whose discontented corners gave to her expression a weary, almost a petulant note. No ordinary person, an admirer of the sex, studying her as she had crossed the lawn, would probably have troubled to look at her again; Mr. Johnson, however, was not an ordinary person. It was one of his gifts to appreciate people for what they were, not for what they seemed to be. He realised that there were certain exceptional characteristics about the young woman who stood waiting for his reply.

“Please don’t hesitate to say so,” she went on, half turning away, “if you think Madame’s request unreasonable. I really don’t see myself why you should consent. I am simply the bearer of a message.”

“My dear young lady, pray sit down,” Mr. Johnson invited, pushing a wicker chair towards her. “Please assure Madame—I fear that her name is a little beyond me—that I should be very glad indeed for Smith to continue to render her the services which he has hitherto performed.”

“As to remuneration,” she began——

Mr. Johnson waved his hand.

“Pray settle that with the man himself,” he begged. “I shall allow him his half an hour off each day—he has an under gardener and can spare the time. It is only a neighbourly action. Anything Madame may choose to give him is no concern of mine.”

“You are very kind,” she said doubtfully, “but I do not think that Madame will care to accept the man’s services in your time without seeing that you are recompensed.”

“Make your own arrangements then,” he suggested. “The matter is scarcely worth serious discussion.”

The young woman rose.

“You are very kind,” she repeated. “You must excuse my having come to see you in this informal fashion. It was Madame’s desire, and I have to obey orders.”

“I will excuse it, my dear young lady,” he declared, “on one condition.”

“Condition?”

“That you sit down and talk to me for a minute or two.”

“Why should I do that?” she asked, with a querulous uplifting of the eyebrows, which he had already noticed were very fine and silky.

“Because we are neighbours,” he replied. “Because I have just returned to this country after many years spent abroad, and I am at times lonely. Because I am quite sure that Madame can spare you for half an hour, and because—here is a great idea—if I let you have my gardener for half an hour, why shouldn’t Madame, as you call her, let me have her companion for the same length of time?”

She looked at him with mild curiosity. Her self-possession was so marked as to indicate indifference.

“Is it my fancy,” she asked, “or are you rather a strange person?”

“I like to talk,” he confided. “All my life I have had to live amongst silent people. That is finished. Agreeable society is one of the things to which I have looked forward upon my return to England.”

“Then why on earth did you come to Market Ballaston?” she demanded, with unexpected vehemence. “You won’t find any society here. Why did you come? Why did you choose this place?”

She had without warning adopted an almost inquisitive tone, but his eyes met hers steadily. He seemed to be trying to divine her sudden access of interest.

“I came,” he explained, “because I like a large house and gardens, when I can afford them, and this place is very cheap. I had to settle down somewhere, and this neighbourhood is as good as any other. As to the people—well, if there is no one here who wants to be friendly, I must make the best of it. I have been abroad for a great many years, but I have a few friends left who will find me out in time.”

The little spark of interest seemed to have entirely died out of her manner.

“I see,” she murmured. “The house certainly is a pleasant one. We scarcely expected, though, to see it let so soon.”

“Why not?”

“People have ideas. You know the story of the last tenant here?”

“I heard it after I had taken the house,” he confided.

She pointed to the library window on the ground floor.

“He was shot one night in the study there,” she told him.

“Terrible! And what seems more terrible still, I understand that the murderer was never caught. Surely some one must have been suspected.”

The girl shrugged her shoulders. She had accepted one of her companion’s cigarettes and was smoking lazily and with a certain measure of content.

“I think,” she said, “that every one in the village has been suspected, including Mr. Wilkinson the clergyman, myself, every one up at the Hall and all the servants. The hard thing, however, has always been to discover any possible motive.”

“Nothing was taken from the room then, I suppose?” he enquired.

“Nothing that could be traced. Nothing apparently of any value. Mr. Endacott had been occupied in the translation of some wonderful Chinese manuscripts at the time the affair happened. The box containing them was upset and the manuscripts were all over the place, but no one could tell if any were missing, or if they were of any real value. Even his niece, Miss Endacott, who ought to have known, had nothing whatever to say.”

“What sort of a man was this predecessor of mine?” he asked.

“He had been a great scholar in his day,” she answered, a little doubtfully, “but really I only saw him once or twice. Some of the papers called him the greatest living authority on Chinese art and antiquities. He had spent nearly all his life out there.”

“Of cheerful disposition?”

“Not very. He was exceedingly reserved and seemed all the time engrossed in his work. He chose this part of the world, I think, to be near Madame, but, considering that they were brother and sister, he saw very little of her.”

“And the young lady—his niece?”

“She was very attractive—I suppose you might say beautiful,” was the somewhat cold reply. “She left soon after the inquest and hasn’t returned yet. She is coming to stay with Madame, I believe, very shortly.”

“A most mysterious affair!” Mr. Johnson reflected. “Yet I dare say, if one knew where to start, the solution would be very simple. Now, supposing, Miss Besant, any one were to offer you the thing you most desired in life to discover who fired that shot, where should you start your investigations?”

She turned her head and looked at him. The sleepy droop of her eyelids had for a moment gone, and he saw that her eyes themselves were beautiful.

“I have not the faintest idea,” she assured him. “Nature never meant me for a detective. I have too little imagination.”

There was a brief silence. The young lady began to make preparations for departure.

“Tell me,” her companion ventured; “now that I am settling down here, I should like to be neighbourly. It is, of course, impossible for Madame to come and see me—would it be possible for me to call upon her?”

“In a general way,” she replied, after a moment’s hesitation, “I should have told you at once that it was altogether impossible. Madame detests visitors—the outer gate is generally kept locked as a hint—but curiously enough, she has shown the utmost interest in your coming. She will bombard me with questions when I return. Unless what I say satisfies her, it is very possible that she may consent to receive your visit. Although,” she added, “you won’t get much amusement out of it.”

“In any case,” he said, “I hope before long that Madame may require some other trifling service and that you will again be her ambassadress.”

She left him, vouchsafing only the most casual of farewells, and passing round the corner of the house without a backward glance. Mr. Johnson watched her every step. An ordinary young woman without a doubt, wearing ordinary clothes, saying ordinary things, and with an unusual gift for concealment. Yet there was something in her very reticence which had its allurement. Mr. Johnson, who was not a profound psychologist, although he had always understood the men with whom he had had to deal, had a flash of inspiration. She was ordinary, just as she was reticent—because she was, by temperament, or circumstance, intensely self-possessive. He came to the conclusion, as he returned to his unaccustomed pursuit, and fluffed mashie shot after mashie shot, that there existed a Miss Besant at present entirely unrevealed.

At precisely half-past three o’clock that afternoon there occurred what was looked upon almost as a pageant in the village. With great ceremony the very fine gates leading to the Hall were thrown open by the lodge keeper, and, in the small old-fashioned brougham which only left the Ballaston stables three or four times a year, drawn by a couple of dark bay horses, whose sides shone like satin and whose harness glittered from every point of view in iridescent splendour, Mr. Henry Ballaston, on behalf of the family, came to call upon the newcomer at the Great House. From the lodge gates onward the progress of the seldom seen lesser autocrat of the village and neighbourhood was something like a royal procession. The tradesmen hastened to their shop windows to perform their salutes, the roadmender stood, bare-headed, looking downward as one receiving a blessing. The solitary occupant of the brougham sat with expressionless face, his hand raised all the time to his hat. It was impressive and distinctly a survival.

Arrived at the somewhat inhospitable-looking gates of solid oak which formed the entrance to the Great House, the footman sprang to the ground and drew from its resting place amongst the ivy the knob of the seldom-used bell. The gates were thrown open. Morton received the visitor at the front door and escorted him to where his master lay stretched in a basket chair under a cedar tree at the farthest corner of the lawn.

“Mr. Henry Ballaston, sir,” he announced.

Peter Johnson stumbled to his feet and Henry Ballaston removed his hat in courtly and formal salute. He was strangely dressed for the country, in a black cut away coat and grey checked trousers. The shape of his collar belonged to a past generation. He wore a black satin tie folded over and secured by a pearl pin, a bowler hat carried now in his hand, and grey suÈde gloves.

“You are, I presume,” he said, withdrawing the glove from his right hand before extending it, “our new neighbour, Mr. Johnson. I have called on behalf of my brother and myself for the purpose of welcoming you to this neighbourhood.”

Mr. Johnson took the outstretched hand and released it almost at once. Here was a man, he decided, after his own heart—a man difficult to read, of immense reticences.

“It is very kind of you to come,” he said. “I am sure I scarcely expected it. I have been given to understand that neither you nor your brother pay many visits.”

“I am afraid,” Henry Ballaston assented, accepting the chair which Morton had brought out, “that we are both a little neglectful of our duties in that respect. You are so near a neighbour, however, that I permitted myself the pleasure of devoting a spare half-hour to making your acquaintance.”

“Very kind of you, I am sure,” Mr. Johnson repeated. “Fine old property, yours.”

“Ballaston Hall has many points of interest,” the other admitted. “I trust that we may soon have the pleasure of seeing you there. My brother,” he added, with a little sigh, “finds many calls upon his time. He is Chairman of the Quarter Sessions, Lord Lieutenant of the County, and he takes some interest in the political activities of our Member. He is, furthermore, Master of the Hounds here, as I dare say you know. He desired me to say, however, that he should look forward to the pleasure of making your acquaintance.—You yourself are agreeably housed here.”

“I like the place,” its tenant admitted. “In many respects it suits me admirably.”

“I find it interesting and also laudable,” Henry Ballaston observed—“as no doubt do many other of your neighbours—that you were not deterred from taking up your residence here on account of the tragedy—the unfortunate accident—which befell the late owner of the house.”

Mr. Johnson looked for a moment steadily across the iron fence close to which they were seated. It was a typically restful summer afternoon. From the distance came the soothing sound of a grass-cutting machine. There was a murmur of bees amongst the roses, the faintest rustle of west wind amongst the shrubs. All the time those cold blue eyes watched him. There was no sign of anxiety or even of interest in Henry Ballaston’s expressionless face. His attitude remained stiff and formal. His eyes never wavered in their steadfast gaze.

“I was not told of the incident to which you refer,” Mr. Johnson confided, “until after I had signed the contract. But, in any case, I don’t know that it would have made any difference. The quiet of this place soothes me. To one who has lived a busy life in foreign cities, there is a great attraction in the peaceful outlook of a village like this.”

“That is easily comprehensible,” Henry Ballaston admitted judicially. “Still there are many country places with attractions more obvious than Market Ballaston can offer. Golf links in the immediate vicinity, for instance; shooting or hunting.”

“That may be so,” the other agreed. “My life, however, has been too busy a one to cultivate any taste for such things. I understand there are excellent golf links in the neighbourhood, if later on I find it necessary to seek amusement outside my gardens. Shooting, after a fashion, I have at times indulged in. I gather, however, that there is none to let within reasonable distance.”

“No Ballaston shooting has been let for many years,” was the somewhat stiff reply. “From what part of the world, might I ask, Mr. Johnson, do you come?”

“From all quarters of it. I am by birth an American, but I have travelled a great deal of recent years. The English life is almost unknown to me. It is, perhaps, for that reason that I appreciate these surroundings.”

Henry Ballaston nodded gravely.

“I trust,” he said, “that you will find all your expectations realised. It is a surprise to me,” he added, “to learn that you are of American birth. Your accent would not betray the fact.”

“I left America,” Mr. Johnson explained, “when I was nineteen years old, and I have only once returned to New York. Since then I have learned to speak many languages. My business has required it. As regards the tragedy to which you have alluded,” he went on, after a momentary pause, “although having settled here I shall not allow myself to be disturbed by it, I will confess that the story I was told last evening of the murder in my library was rather a shock. Abroad we have always had a very high opinion of the British detective service. It seems incredible that in a small place like this such a crime should remain undetected.”

“It is, I believe,” was the cold admission, “a circumstance without precedent.”

“I gather that no clue or motive of any sort has been discovered?” Mr. Johnson persisted. “From all that one can hear, the murdered man appears to have been an entirely harmless individual and his belongings not in the least likely to attract the ordinary type of criminal.”

“There are other of your neighbours,” Henry Ballaston surmised, with marked aloofness, “who can tell you much more of the affair. So far as I am concerned, it remains only an unpleasant memory.—We hope very much—my brother and I—Mr. Johnson, that you will give us the pleasure of your company at luncheon at the Hall.”

“You are very kind, I am sure.”

“If agreeable to you, and if you will pardon the short notice, we will say to-morrow at one o’clock,” the visitor suggested, rising. “My nephew is at home for a short time before proceeding abroad. Otherwise we shall be alone.—Once more, Mr. Johnson, I bid you welcome and trust that you will derive all the pleasure you anticipate from your residence here.”

The tenant of the Great House, a little speechless, escorted his visitor to the front entrance before which the carriage was waiting. At their approach a footman threw open the door of the brougham, the coachman sat up in his seat, the horses, fretted from the flies, pawed the gravel. Henry Ballaston, with a formal bow of farewell, took his seat and, with the sun glittering upon the silver of the harness and the brightly polished, shiny top of the brougham, this visit of ceremony was brought to an end.

Back through the village street, with eyes looking this time neither to the right nor to the left, through the lodge gates, where his hand sought the brim of his hat in mechanical salute to the curtseying doorkeeper, along the winding avenue, and through the iron gates up to the great front of the Hall, Henry Ballaston passed on his return journey and finally reached his destination. He entered the cool, lofty hall, handed his hat and gloves to the footman who was waiting, and hesitated for a moment. The door of the library was unexpectedly opened. Sir Bertram strolled out as though by accident.

“Well, my dutiful brother?” he asked, his tone, though apparently careless, betraying an underlying anxiety.

Henry waited until he had reached his brother’s side.

“The man appears to be perfectly harmless,” he confided. “He will take lunch with us to-morrow.”

“Good!” Sir Bertram approved. “I shall go and change now. I am going to have a few sets of tennis with Gregory.”

Henry Ballaston crossed the hall and, passing through the library, entered the smaller room which had been devoted to his use. Gregory in flannels and with a tennis racket under his arm, was apparently engaged in examining one of the catalogues. He turned around as his uncle entered.

“Hullo!” he exclaimed. “You back already!”

“My call I thought was of suitable length,” was the measured rejoinder.

“What sort of a fellow is this new tenant of ours?” Gregory demanded.

His uncle paused for a moment. Gregory’s fingers were nervously tapping the vellum-bound manuscript which he held.

“A very ordinary sort of person,” he pronounced, “who appears to have found his way here entirely by accident.”

Gregory replaced on the shelf the catalogue which he had been studying. He failed to notice that he had been holding the volume upside down.

“Good of you to do the duty stunt, Uncle Henry,” he observed.

“It has always been one of my few obligations,” was the quiet reply. “Mr. Johnson is lunching with us to-morrow.”

“I sha’n’t go over to Cromer until the afternoon then,” Gregory announced. “One may as well be civil, and I have rather a fancy to see what the fellow is like.”