“It’s me, Mr. Rock—Mrs. Gillingwater.” “Then I want you least of all, you foul-mouthed, lying woman. Get you gone, or I’ll loose the dogs on you.” “You’d better not,” she answered, “for I’ve something to tell you that you’d like to hear.” “Something that I’d like to hear,” he answered, hesitating: “is it about _her?_” “Yes, it’s about her—all about her.” “Come in,” he said. She entered, and he shut and locked the door behind her. “What are you a-doing that for?” asked Mrs. Gillingwater suspiciously. “Nothing,” he answered, “but doors are best locked. You can’t tell who will come through them, nor when, if they’re left open.” “That’s just another of his nasty ways,” muttered Mrs. Gillingwater, as she followed him down the passage into the sitting-room, which was quite dark except for some embers of a wood fire that glowed upon the hearth. “Stop a minute, and I will light the lamp,” said her host. Soon it burnt brightly, and while Samuel was making up the fire Mrs. Gillingwater had leisure to observe the room, in which as it chanced she had never been before, at any rate since she was a child. On the occasions of their previous interviews Samuel had always received her in the office or the kitchen. It was long and low, running the depth of the house, so that the windows faced east and west. The fireplace was wide, and over it hung a double-barrelled muzzle-loading gun, which Mrs. Gillingwater noticed was charged, for the light shone upon the copper caps. There were two doors one near the fireplace, leading to the offices and kitchen, and one by which she had entered. The floor was of oak, half covered with strips of matting, and the ceiling also was upheld by great beams of oak, that, like most of the materials in this house, had been bought or stolen from the Abbey at the time when it was finally deserted, a hundred and fifty years before. This was put beyond a doubt, indeed, by the curious way in which it had been the fancy of the builder to support these huge beams namely, by means of gurgoyles that once had carried off the water from the roofs of the Abbey. It would be difficult to imagine anything more grotesque, or indeed uncanny, than the effect of these weather-worn and grinning heads of beasts and demons glaring down upon the occupants of the chamber open-mouthed, as though they were about to spring upon and to devour them. Indeed, according to a tale in Bradmouth, a child of ten, finding herself left alone with them for the first time, was so terrified by their grizzly appearance that she fell into a fit. For the rest, the walls of the room were hung with a dingy paper, and adorned with engravings of a Scriptural character, diversified by prints taken from Fox’s “Book of Martyrs.” The furniture was good, solid and made of oak, like everything else in the place, with the sole exception of an easy chair, in which it was Samuel’s custom to smoke at night.