Wotherall had not been popular at Harley. He was no good at games, and did not take the trouble to conceal his dislike of them. Besides, he had no respect for conventions; he did not have a fag, and inveighed hotly against those who did; he thought nothing of the "caps" and other big-wigs, and was invariably in trouble, either with a master, a House Sixth, or somebody of an equally recognised importance. Still, for all that, he had been a most excellent chum, and he, Casson, had repeatedly felt a longing to see him again, if only to chat about the many escapades they had had together. What had become of him, he wondered? Strange that that stone in the picture should have attracted his attention--should have led him to look for the name of the artist, and to discover in it his old friend! Of course the rocking of the stone was a hallucination. Probably his sight had played him a trick or his brain had suddenly become giddy. How could a stone in a picture--a thing of mere paint and canvas--suddenly start rocking? The thing was too fantastic for words, and he walked back to his seat, laughing. Ringing the bell, he asked to see the landlord, and when the latter appeared, he inquired of him how he had come by the picture, and if he knew the artist. "I bought that picture, sir," the landlord replied, "of a woman of the name of Griffiths. I happened to be passing her house--Stepping-Stone Farm, they call it--one day, when she was having a sale of some of her live stock, together with a few odds and ends in the way of surplus furniture, books, pictures, etc. I am very fond of a good landscape, sir, particularly with a bit of water in it, and there was something about this one that specially appealed to me. That, sir, is the stream that flows outside the old woman's house, and it was painted, so she informed me, by an artist who used to lodge with her, but had to leave in the end because he was stony-broke, and hadn't the wherewithal to go on paying the rent. A not uncommon happening with artists, sir, so I have always been given to understand. From what I gathered he owed the old woman pounds, and the few things he left behind him--knick-knacks and a couple of pictures--I bought the lot--was all the compensation she could ever get out of him." "You don't know where he went, I suppose?" Casson said. "No," the landlord replied, shaking his head. "Mrs. Griffiths did not volunteer that information, and, as I was not particularly interested in the fellow, I didn't ask her. She doesn't live very far from here, however, and if you would like to see her, sir, you could hire a trap and drive over, or even walk--though, maybe, you'd find walking a bit too tiring this weather."