Very few people about Cheriton envied her ladyship. It was considered that, if not born in the purple, she had at least brought her husband a large fortune, and had a right to taste the sweets of wealth. But there were many hard-driven wives and shabby genteel spinsters who envied Mrs. Porter her sinecure at the gate of Cheriton Park, and who looked grudgingly at the garden brimming over with flowers and the lattices shining in the evening sun, and through the open casements at prettily furnished rooms, rich in books and photographs, and other trivial indications of a refined taste. “It is well to be she,” said the curate’s wife, as she went home from the village with two mutton chops in her little fancy basket, a basket which suggested ferns, and in which she always carried a trowel, to give the look of casual botany to her housewifely errands. “I wonder whether Lord Cheriton allows her an income for doing nothing, or is it only house, and coals, and candles that she gets?” speculated the curate’s wife, who lived in a brand new villa on the outskirts of Cheriton village—a villa that was shabby and dilapidated after three years’ occupation, through whose thin walls all the winds of winter blew, and whose slate roof made the upper floor like a bakehouse under the summer sun. Lord Cheriton, still sauntering in gloomy meditation, came to the cottage garden outside his gates, and found Mrs. Porter standing among her roses,—a tall, black figure, the very pink and pattern of respectability, with her prayer-book in one hand and a grey silk sunshade in the other. She turned at the sound of those august footsteps, and came to the little garden gate to greet her benefactor, with a grave countenance, as befitted the circumstances. “Good afternoon,” he said briefly. “Have you just come from church?” “Yes, I have been to the children’s service.” “Not very interesting, I should imagine, for anybody past childhood?” “It is something to do on a Sunday afternoon, and I like to hear Mr. Kempster talk to the children.” “Do you? Well, there is no accounting for tastes. Can you tell me anything about my son-in-law’s murderer? Have you seen any suspicious characters hanging about? Did you notice any one going into the park on Friday night?” “No, I have not seen a mortal out of the common way. The gate was locked at the usual hour. Of course the gate would make no difference—it would be easy for any one to get into the park.” “And no one was seen about? It is extraordinary. Have you any idea, Mrs. Porter, any theory about this horrible calamity that has come upon us?” “How should I have any theory? I am not skilled in finding out such mysteries, like the man who came from London yesterday. Has he made no discoveries?” “Not one.” “Then you can’t expect me to throw a light upon the subject.” “You have an advantage over the London detective. You know the neighbourhood—and you know what kind of man Sir Godfrey was.”