"Besides," resumed P.C. Jobling after a little reflection, "they say that the maids in this 'ere 'ouse is niggers, an' none too respectable at that. 'Orrible things might 'appen." He brooded darkly on the possibility. "Well, if you don't do something we shall 'ave 'orrible things 'appening any'ow," said Mrs. Rudd. "Sure as fate we'll all be murdered. I was saying to-day to Mrs. Green...." "If I went," interrupted Artie, struck with a new thought, "they might murder _me_." "They might," agreed his aunt, "an' they might not. Any'ow, that's what you're 'ere for, Artie. If anybody in this village is to be murdered it ought to be you, Artie. It's your plain dooty. If you ain't goin' to do it, you ought to be in the trenches." Constable Jobling stared at her without a word. This view of his mission in life had never been brought to his notice before. Apparently it disconcerted him no little. "Lot o' good the police force is when anything does 'appen." Mrs. Rudd returned with freshness and vigor to her original line of argument. "An' a lot o' promotion you'll get, my lad. Why, I'd make a better policeman'n you out o' a turnip-top an' a broom 'andle any day. Why 'ere's Mrs. Green." The door-latch clicked, and Mrs. Green of the general stores entered. "'Ere, Maria," said Mrs. Rudd, "I was just tellin' young Artie...." But young Artie had had enough. He tramped heavily out, slammed the post-office door behind him, and retired to his own cottage to brood on the cursed spite which had selected him to minister to times so out of joint. For ten days or more the whole village had been in a ferment over the strange people and stranger doings at the Manor. The fact that neither the vicar nor his wife, who had been seen to leave the place, could be induced to say a word of what they had seen, only deepened the dark and formless suspicions held in the neighborhood. Jobling had had an increasingly strong idea that the public opinion of him as a smart and ambitious young member of a distinguished body was gradually changing, but his outspoken aunt was the first person to put this new feeling into words and to force the unfortunate policeman to look facts in the face. He was frightened of the unknown murdering heathens who might possibly lurk in ambush for him in the grounds of Denmore Manor, but he was even more frightened of the known and well-tried power of his aunt's tongue. He sat behind the curtains in his cottage and gave himself up to melancholy thought. Before long he saw Mrs. Green, her chat with the post-mistress concluded, coming up the street. She met with another decrepit old dame, and the two began to discuss some choice piece of scandal with great animation. Mrs. Green closed her peroration by pointing at Jobling's window and shaking her head sorrowfully. The other lady also shook her head and doddered off up the street, where she could be seen a few moments later in deep and direful converse with _her_ dearest friend.