It was an easy task. Dobbs was a genial, garrulous sort of soul with a great respect for all persons connected with the Arts. What he did not know about the local gentry for several miles round was not worth the knowing. Nearly sixty-five years of life had been passed in the close neighbourhood of Brinkstone, and there was not a piece of local gossip that was not firmly retained in his retentive memory. It was the greatest bit of luck, thought Sellars, that he should have come across the very man for his purpose, full of knowledge and ready to pour it into the ears of a listening and appreciative guest. The long winter evenings afforded an unrivalled opportunity. In this, the dull season, Mr. Dobbs descended somewhat from his exalted position of head-waiter and made himself generally useful in minor and less dignified posts. Under pressure of business, he had been known to serve occasionally in the general bar, for the contemptible failing of false pride had no place in his honest and manly nature. Sellars used to mix the old fellow a stiff tot of whisky which he absorbed with the air of one fairly well acquainted with strong drink. It refreshed his memory while not in the least clouding his faculties. The young man heard many details of the various families in the neighbourhood in whom he was not even slightly interested. Then he got Dobbs on to the subject of Brinkstone Park and its owners by a casual observation:— “I know Sir George Clayton-Brookes a little in London,” he said carelessly. “I understand he assumed the name of Clayton with some property he inherited. It seems a very fine place from what I can see of it from the outside. He doesn’t inhabit it now, they tell me; it’s let on a long lease to a rich retired merchant. I suppose you know all about the family?” This set the talkative Dobbs off at full tilt; he indulged in a reminiscent chuckle. Was there any family he did not know everything about within a twenty-mile radius? And Brinkstone Park lay close to his doors; you could see its chimneys from the hotel door across the swelling upland. “I knew the father, old Sir George, and his lady, and of course the three boys; there were no girls. The old man was very popular and, at one time, had plenty of money. It was a fine estate when he came into it, for his father was as thrifty as the son was lavish. He harked back to some of his forbears—raced, gambled and spent money like water. The boys were all a wild lot, but they hadn’t their father’s good nature or kind heart. There were three of ’em, Charles the eldest, George, now the Baronet, and Archibald. Most people thought Charles was a bit wanting in the upper storey. Archibald was the wildest and the maddest of the lot; they had to pack him out of the country to Australia, where he died. George was pretty wild too, but he wasn’t a fool; far and away the cleverest of the three.”