Almost every house had its front garden, with a brick wall or palings between it and the road. One, with a flagged path, an arbour, and a bald, white face, exhibited a square board close under the eaves, on which was briefly inscribed the seductive invitation, “TEA.” An adjoining neighbour, with absolutely bare surroundings, had affixed to his porch the notice, “CUT FLOWERS”; and, from the two advertisements, it was evident that the all-penetrating motor had discovered the existence of Ottinge-in-the-Marsh! The next object of note--and in daring proximity to the church--was the Drum Inn; an undoubtedly ancient black-and-white building, with dormer windows, an overhanging top storey, and stack of imposing chimneys. It was strikingly picturesque without (if cramped and uncomfortable within), and stood forth prominently into the street considerably in advance of its neighbours, as if to claim most particular attention; it was a fact that the Drum had been frequently sketched, and was also the subject of a (locally) popular postcard. The tall church, grey and dignified, was a fitting conclusion to this old-world hamlet; parts of it were said to date from the seventh century. Splendid elms and oaks of unknown age sheltered the stately edifice, and close by, the last house in Ottinge, was the dignified Queen Anne rectory. Surrounded by shaven lawns and an imposing extent of garden walls, it had an appearance of mellow age, high breeding, and prosperity. The sitting-room windows stood open, the curtains were not yet drawn, and Wynyard, noticing one or two flitting figures, permitted his mind to wonder if one of these was Miss Aurea, who, so to speak, ran the village, ruled the Manor, and was, according to Thomas Hogben, the prettiest girl--bar one--in ten parishes? Pipe in mouth, the explorer wandered along for some distance, and presently came to a farmhouse, encircled by enormous black barns and timbered outhouses, with thatched, sloping roofs; but there was no smoke from the farm chimney, no sound from stables or byre; the yard was covered with grass, the very duck-pond was dry. A former tenant and his family, finding the old world too strong for them, had fled to Canada many years previously, and ever since Claringbold’s farm had remained empty and desolate. In autumn, the village urchins pillaged the orchard; in winter, wandering tramps encamped in the outhouses. Never again would there be a sound of lowing cows, the humming of threshing gear, the shouts of carters encouraging their horses, or children’s voices calling to their dogs.