“The valets or keepers, whichever they are, and there are many of them, to relieve each other, are all unmarried except two or three of the most trusted. The rest are all brought over from England and shipped back usually after four or five years of service. The men I overheard were two of these, an old hand soon to finish his enlistment, as he called it, and go home, and the lad he was training to take his place. All these specials have plenty of time off to spend outside. They’d sit over their beer for two or three hours at a time, chatting on, Appleshaw giving points to Kitworth or Kitworth asking questions. I learnt from them about the cross-wall.” “Never’s been a woman t’ other side of it since it was built,” Appleshaw said. “I shouldn’t have thought it,” Kitworth ruminated. “Can you imagine a woman,” Appleshaw asked, “standin’ him?” “No,” Kitworth admitted, “I hardly can. But some women’ll stand more’n a man.” “Anyhow,” Appleshaw added, “he can’t abide the sight of a woman.” “Odd,” said Kitworth, “I’ve heard his kind are all the other way.” “They are, as we know,” Appleshaw replied, “havin’ watched ’em; but he ain’t. He can’t endure ’em.” “I suppose it’s the same way about dogs,” Kitworth reflected. “No dog’d ever get used to him,” Appleshaw agreed, “and he’s that afraid of dogs, they’re not allowed inside the place anywhere. Never’s been one here since he was born, I’m told. No, nor any cat, either, not one even.” Another time I heard Appleshaw say: “He built the museums, and the pavilion and the towers, the rest was built before he grew up.” Generally I could not hear much of Kitworth’s utterances, he talked so low. I once heard Appleshaw reply: Sometimes nights and nights he’ll be quiet as anybody, lights out early and sleep sound for all we know. Again he’ll be up all night, every window blazin’, or up late, till after midnight. Whoever’s on duty sees the night out, nobody else’s business, unless they send an alarm for help, and that ain’t often; not twice a year. Mostly he’s as quiet as you or me, as long as he’s obeyed. “His temper’s short though. Now he’ll fly into a rage if he’s not answered quick; again he’ll storm if the watchers come near him uncalled.” Of long inaudible whispers I caught fragments. Once: “Oh, then he’ll have no one near. You can hear him sobbing like a child. When he’s worst you’ll hear him, still nights, howlin’ and screamin’ like a lost soul.” Again: “Clean-fleshed as a child and no more hairy than you or me.” Again: “Fiddle? No violinist can beat him. I’ve listened hours. It makes you think of your sins. An’ then it’ll change an’ you remember your first sweetheart, an’ spring rains and flowers, an’ when you was a child on your mother’s knee. It tears your heart out.” The two phrases that seemed to mean most were: “He won’t stan’ any interference.” And: “Never a lock touched till daylight after he’s once locked in.” “Now what do you think?” Thwaite asked me.