“What call you that building yonder? Is’t a gentleman’s seat, or what?” “Nay, sir, ’tis no gentleman’s seat now; though methinks I’ve heard ’twas a considerable place once on a time. ’Tis but a farmhouse that they call Rede Hall.” “Rede Hall—eh? And what sort of folk are they that live there now?” “’Tis kept by an old farmer, sir, that lives there with his wife, his son, and his daughter. They be quiet folks, sir, and I know nowt else about ’em,” said the landlord, who knew perfectly well on what business the brigadier had come, as he remembered hearing of a similar expedition which had come that way not many days before. “Quiet! Ay, but they be main queer folks,” piped out an old man, who was enjoying his tankard of ale at the bar. “The place has had a mighty odd name these long years past; and they do say, sir, ’tis haunted. There was a wicked lord lived there in the orld toime, so they say, and he killed his wife by flaying her to death in what was once the chapel, and that now they call the Gray Barn.” “Hey, man, them’s but idle tales,” said the landlord quickly. “Ah doan’t knaw that, Ah doan’t knaw that,” chimed in another man, taking up the running now that the first awe of the grand soldier had worn off. “Ah’ve heeard the tale, too, and how they say he can’t rest in’s grave, but works with his flail in the Gray Barn o’ nights e’en now. And for sure Ah’ve heeard myself most fearsome noises, and seen a blue light a-burning like to none other I ever see afore, as Ah’ve crossed the bridge below there yonder o’ nights, when Ah’ve been late home wi’ my wagon.” “Ay, and Farmer Price, hisself, he’ve seen—summat. He’s told as much hisself,” said another man. “’Tis a place I’d not care to sleep in while there was a hedge to lie under.” “Tales; naught but old wives’ tales!” said the landlord, imperturbably. “The old lady would never ha’ lived all these years in the place if so be there was aught to be afeared on under yon honest roof.” The general opinion, however, seemed to be rather with the old man who had first spoken than with the landlord on this matter. And Tregenna felt more than ever convinced, as they came away from the inn and crossed the stream by the little bridge that led to the farmhouse, that this was the wasps’ nest to be smoked out. It was an ancient and picturesque pile of building, this Rede Hall, standing on the slope of a hill, and presenting to the view of the visitors a long south side of red brick, in the Tudor style, in a state of indifferent repair, with a somewhat unkempt growth of ivy and other creepers hanging about it and almost choking a small door, of later date than the building, which was now the state entrance to the house. The grass-grown state of the narrow garden-path which led to this door betrayed the fact that visits of state to the occupants of Rede Hall were a great rarity.