"She has a housekeeper, I believe, who makes friends with nobody; a dumb gardener and a dumb footman. A little extraordinary, eh?" He rubbed his hands with zest. "But it is true none the less. Of course, all sorts of gossip have been greedily accepted. I never listen to gossip--one has to think of one's position--but some things can not be hid.... They say she takes motor drives at night,--every night. I do not credit the 'every'--exaggeration is so prevalent. I always believe less than half what the villagers tell me--that is, what drifts round to my ears." "But what does she do all day?" asked Lionel. Clearly this was a queer state of affairs. "I do not know. Her grounds are large. Perhaps she gardens." "You do not think there is any fear of ... of a scandal?" asked Lionel in a pained voice, anxious not to wound. "I trust not ... I trust not. I have no reason to think.... Of course, things _do_ look odd, and my wife says ... but, no! I am sure she must be wrong. I ... I hope so." "Mrs. Peters has heard----?" hazarded Lionel. The clergyman shook his head with dignity. "Nothing. Nothing. My wife called, but was refused admittance. Naturally she, as the vicar's wife, felt a little hurt...." "Of course," agreed Lionel. "But no other friends come? Nobody in motors?" "I believe not. I should have heard,--it would have drifted round to me in the course of time." "Nobody stays here, I suppose?" "Oh, yes--golfers. One is here now--an excellent man,--old and of foreign origin, I believe. He calls himself Beckett; but he has told me (in confidence) that he is here for rest, incognito. He may be somebody of importance--an excellent man, however. He gave me a guinea for our restoration fund the day I showed him the church." "The ambassador!" was Lionel's swift conclusion; and then aloud, "Has he been here long?" "Three days. For golf. We have played a few rounds." He smiled at some hidden joy. "He is not very good, for even I can give him a stroke a hole. Uncommunicative--very, but interesting, a gentleman, and I should say a seeker." "Ah!" said Lionel, getting up. "Well, I must go on. Can you tell me how to find The Quiet House?" The other gasped. "You are going to _call_!" He recollected himself and apologized. "I beg your pardon, but ... go straight down the road ... the prettiest house on the right. By the way, if you are staying here I should be happy to take you round the links. Or show you the church----" "Thank you," said Lionel. "You are very good, but I don't know how long I shall be staying." "Well, come round and smoke a pipe after dinner," suggested the clergyman. His eagerness to secure one who knew Miss Arkwright was poorly disguised. "I would say, come and dine, but Mrs. Peters...." He left it to be understood that Mrs. Peters' permission must first be obtained. Lionel could hardly restrain a smile. "Thank you," he said; "I can not promise yet, but I will remember. Good-by."