"No, I'm employed by Lady Jocelyn; in fact, to tell you the honest truth," said the detective, with a simplicity of manner that was really charming: "to tell you the honest truth, I'm neither more nor less than a private detective, and I have come down from London direct to look after the missing gentleman. You see, Lady Jocelyn is afraid the long illness and fever, and all that sort of thing, may have had a very bad effect upon her poor father, and that he's a little bit touched in the upper story, perhaps;—and, upon my word," added the detective, frankly, "I think this sudden bolt looks very like it. In which case I fancy we may look for an attempt at suicide. What do you think, now, Major Vernon, as a friend of the missing gentleman, eh?" The Major smiled. "Upon my word," he said, "I don't think you're so very far away from the mark. Henry Dunbar has been rather queer in his ways since that railway smash." "Just so. I suppose you wouldn't have any objection to my looking about your house, and round the garden and outbuildings? Your friend _might_ hide himself somewhere about your place. When once they take an eccentric turn, there's no knowing where to have 'em." Major Vernon shrugged his shoulders. "I don't think Dunbar's likely to have got into my house without my knowledge," he said; "but you are welcome to examine the place from garret to cellar if that's any satisfaction to you." He rang a bell as he spoke. It was answered by the girl whose face was tied up. "Ah, Betty, you've got the toothache again, have you? A nice excuse for slinking your work, eh, my girl? That's about the size of your toothache, I expect! Look here now, this gentleman wants to see the house, and you're to show him over it, and over the garden too, if he likes—and be quick about it, for I want my dinner." The girl curtseyed in an awkward countrified manner, and ushered Mr. Carter into the hall. "Betty!" roared the master of the house, as the girl reached the foot of the stair with the detective; "Betty, come here!" She went back to her master, and Mr. Carter heard a whispered conversation, very brief, of which the last sentence only was audible. That last sentence ran thus: "And if you don't hold your tongue, I'll make you pay for it." "Ho, ho!" thought the detective; "Miss Betsy is to hold her tongue, is she? We'll see about that." The girl came back to the hall, and led Mr. Carter into the two sitting-rooms in the front of the house. They were small rooms, with small furniture. They were old-fashioned rooms, with low ceilings, and queer cupboards nestling in out-of-the-way holes and corners: and Mr. Carter had enough work to do in squeezing himself into the interior of these receptacles, which all smelt, more or less, of chandlery and rum,—that truly seaman-like spirit having been a favourite beverage with the late inhabitant of the cottage.