“No--not exactly that. Rather odd and flighty. The fact is, Mrs. Rook has had her troubles; and perhaps they have a little unsettled her. She and her husband used to keep the village inn, close to our park: we know all about them at home. I am sure I pity these poor people. What are you looking at, Francine?” Feeling no sort of interest in Mr. and Mrs. Rook, Francine was studying her schoolfellow’s lovely face in search of defects. She had already discovered that Cecilia’s eyes were placed too widely apart, and that her chin wanted size and character. “I was admiring your complexion, dear,” she answered coolly. “Well, and why do you pity the Rooks?” Simple Cecilia smiled, and went on with her story. “They are obliged to go out to service in their old age, through a misfortune for which they are in no way to blame. Their customers deserted the inn, and Mr. Rook became bankrupt. The inn got what they call a bad name--in a very dreadful way. There was a murder committed in the house.” “A murder?” cried Francine. “Oh, this is exciting! You provoking girl, why didn’t you tell me about it before?” “I didn’t think of it,” said Cecilia placidly. “Do go on! Were you at home when it happened?” “I was here, at school.” “You saw the newspapers, I suppose?” “Miss Ladd doesn’t allow us to read newspapers. I did hear of it, however, in letters from home. Not that there was much in the letters. They said it was too horrible to be described. The poor murdered gentleman--” Francine was unaffectedly shocked. “A gentleman!” she exclaimed. “How dreadful!” “The poor man was a stranger in our part of the country,” Cecilia resumed; “and the police were puzzled about the motive for a murder. His pocketbook was missing; but his watch and his rings were found on the body. I remember the initials on his linen because they were the same as my mother’s initial before she was married--‘J. B.’ Really, Francine, that’s all I know about it.” “Surely you know whether the murderer was discovered?” “Oh, yes--of course I know that! The government offered a reward; and clever people were sent from London to help the county police. Nothing came of it. The murderer has never been discovered, from that time to this.” “When did it happen?” “It happened in the autumn.” “The autumn of last year?” “No! no! Nearly four years since.” CHAPTER VI. ON THE WAY TO THE VILLAGE. Alban Morris--discovered by Emily in concealment among the trees--was not content with retiring to another part of the grounds. He pursued his retreat, careless in what direction it might take him, to a footpath across the fields, which led to the highroad and the railway station.