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. CHAPTER XII ALF RECEIVES That evening a deep peace had settled over Dunwater Park. Except for two people sunning themselves on the terrace, all the inhabitants of the hospital had gone to the tennis-court or the golf-links or the river. "Oh dear," said Isobel, breaking a long silence. "I suppose I ought to go and finish the day's work before dinner." "Don't," urged Denis Allen earnestly. "But duty calls." "Let it. And if you're as virtuous as all that, please note that it is your duty to entertain your guests--meaning me. Tell me the--I say, there's somebody coming across the lawn." "Help!" Isobel pulled a face. "My pet aversion." "Of course," grumbled Allen disconsolately, "this _would_ happen the very first time I've had you to myself." He sat up and regarded the approaching couple with malevolence. "Which is your--er--friend? Male or female?" "Oh, female. The vicar's rather a dear, but his wife...." She gave an all-expressive gesture, and rose to be polite to her unwelcome guests. "This is Mr.... Why, do you know each other?" For the vicar and Allen had fallen into one another's arms. "Last time we met," explained the reverend gentleman, "I was bowling for your father's team and this young man was what is technically known as taking tea off me." "I remember," said Isobel. "I was scoring and very busy you kept me." "Well, well, how splendid to see you again, and recovering your strength, I hope? And what tremendous luck for you falling into the hands of friends!"