“To tell you the truth, Mr. Adkins, I am not thinking of taking that house or any house. I have come to ask you a few questions about a former tenant, and I shall take it as a favour if you will be so good as to answer them.” The agent looked disappointed, but he put his pen behind his ear, crossed his legs, and prepared himself for conversation. “Do you mean a recent tenant?” he asked. “No; the gentleman I am interested in left Myrtle Cottage twenty years ago—nearer five and twenty years, perhaps. His name was Danvers.” The agent gave a suppressed whistle, and looked at his interlocutor with increasing interest. “Oh, you wanted to know something about Mr. Danvers. Was he an acquaintance of yours?” “He was.” “Humph! He is more than old enough to be your father. He might almost be your grandfather. Do you know him intimately?” “As intimately as a man of my age can know a man of his age.” “And position,” added the agent, looking at his visitor shrewdly. Theodore returned the look. “I don’t quite follow your meaning,” he said. “Come, now, sir, if you know anything at all about the gentleman in question you must know that his name is not Danvers, and never was Danvers; that he took Myrtle Cottage under an assumed name, and lived there for nearly ten years under that assumed name; that he never let any of his friends or acquaintances cross his threshold; and that he thought he had hoodwinked me, me a man of the world, moving about in the world, among other men of the world. Why, sir, Mr. Danvers had not paid me three half-years’ rent in notes or gold, as he always paid, and in this office here—before I had found out that he was the rising barrister, Mr. Dalbrook—and before I had guessed the reason of his hole-and-corner style of life.” “What became of the lady who was called Mrs. Danvers?” “And who in all probability was Mrs. Danvers,” said Mr. Adkins. “I have reason to believe that was her name. What became of her? God knows. A servant came to me one August morning with the keys and a half-year’s rent—the tenant had given notice to surrender at the Michaelmas quarter, that being the quarter at which he entered upon possession. Mr. and Mrs. Danvers had gone abroad—to Belgium, the woman thought; and as it was their present intention to live abroad, their furniture had all been removed to the Pantechnicon upon the previous day, and the house was empty, and at my disposal.” “Did you hear nothing more of them after that?” “I heard of him, sir, as all the world heard of him—heard of his marriage with a wealthy young Spanish lady, heard of his elevation to the peerage,—but of Mrs. Danvers I never heard a syllable. I take it she was pensioned off, and that she lived—and may have died—on the Continent. Why, there are a lot of sleepy old Flemish towns—I’m a bit of a traveller in my quiet way—which seem to have been created for that purpose!”