“Yes, Miss Gwyn,” nodded the landlord. “I haven’t got the rights of it yet, it’s only a rumour down here, but, Lord bless your heart, Mr. Gilder, there’s never been so many rumours in this village since I came to live here forty-eight years ago. Some say that his lordship’s been murdered”--he lowered his voice and looked round--“by his brother! Mr. Alford is a very hard man, though the people who work for him have got nothing to say against him, but that doesn’t seem possible to me.” Gilder’s mind was in a whirl. He did not want to know anything about Dick Alford or his reputation. “Who told you this story about Miss Gwyn?” he asked, and the landlord, looking round the group that had formed outside the Red Lion, pointed to a man. “He’s a carter up at the big house,” he said. “Fetch him here,” said Gilder. When the carter arrived: “What is this story about Miss Gwyn?” Gilder asked. The man looked a little sheepish to find himself the centre of interest. “I don’t know nowt about it,” he said. “It’s only what I heerd that monkey-faced gentleman saying to Mr. Richard. He says, ‘I don’t think any harm’s come to her.’ And one of the maids says that that young lady who used to be his lordship’s secretary----” “Miss Wenner? Is she there?” asked Gilder quickly. “Yes, she come up last night.” “What about her?” asked Gilder. “They say she’s been crying her eyes out all the morning. That’s all I know about it. They do say something bad happened to the young lady early this morning, and the way Mr. Richard has been running about and him looking as ill as death----” “I hope something’s going to be done about this Black Abbot,” interjected the innkeeper. “My womenfolk are so frightened they want to sit up half the night.” Gilder looked at him with a queer expression. “You needn’t be afraid of the Black Abbot,” he said. “I am going to lay that ghost to-day.” “You, Mr. Gilder?” said the man, in surprise. But it was not the occasion for confidences, and Gilder, getting back into his car, turned it about and went up the road till he came to the lodge gates. Here a policeman on duty would have barred his progress, but fortunately he was a local man who knew the lawyer. “Mr. Alford’s away, sir. Do you want to see Sergeant Puttler?” “Is that the man who has been staying at the hall? What is he--a policeman?” “A Scotland Yard man, sir,” said the Sussex policeman, with a certain pride. “Though I don’t know they’re much better than our own detectives. You’ll tell him you saw me, will you, and I asked you not to go to the house unless you had business?” Evidently these were the policeman’s instructions; Gilder promised faithfully to supply this exoneration, and continued up the drive. There was nobody to meet him when he pulled up before the old carved porch, but he had hardly alighted when a long-armed, queer-faced man came from nowhere. “Good-morning,” said the visitor.