He had chosen the place because he had learned that Brinkstone Park, situated a mile and a half from the little village, was the ancestral home of the Brookes family, of which Sir George was now the head. Acting on the assumption that the baronet stood in the relation of brother-in-law to Mrs. Morrice, he thought it probable that not only would he pick up first-hand information about the man, but might glean some equally valuable data with regard to the woman whose maiden name had been the somewhat uncommon one of Larchester. He had only been established in his quarters a few days, but during that time fortune had favoured him, and he had picked up some very useful facts concerning both the lady and gentleman. The Brinkstone Arms, which was part public-house and part small hotel, was run by a middle-aged couple who had purchased it a few years ago, and were not likely to be deeply versed in local knowledge. But attached to the hostelry was an ancient and very respectable-looking servitor of the name of Dobbs, who was now verging on his sixty-fifth year and had been associated with the place in various capacities from the age of fifteen. Staying guests were few and far between, but in the summer-time the pretty village of Brinkstone was a great attraction to excursionists, and in the busy season luncheons, teas and dinners were served in an attractive room which had been added on to the old-fashioned main building. In this spacious apartment Mr. Dobbs officiated as head-waiter, with a subordinate or two in the strenuous months to assist him. This genial person, with his highly respectable appearance, his neat side-whiskers, was purely a local product. He had been born in the village, as his mother and father were before him, the latter having been an agricultural labourer, the former in domestic service, and with the exception of two excursions to London and about a dozen to Brighton and Eastbourne, he had never been farther than a few miles from Brinkstone. Mr. Sellars posed as a literary man in search of local colour. This was not after all a very great exaggeration of the truth, as he did write a good deal in a desultory fashion. He had a nice, clear, airy bedroom which in summer would have been a delightful apartment, overlooking as it did a beautiful expanse of country, and a small but comfortably furnished sitting-room. In order to keep up his assumed character, he religiously strewed the table at judicious intervals with sheets of MS. which were in reality the opening chapters of a detective story with which he occupied himself from time to time. He took long walks, presumably in search of the local colour he professed to be seeking. But of course the real object of his brief sojourn in this picturesque but dull little village, was to extract all the information he could from the pleasant-faced head-waiter with the neat side-whiskers.