“I shall go and see the city agents at once,” I replied, resolutely. “It is too rare an opportunity to be lost. Only, don’t raise your hopes too high, my dear. Advertisements are apt to be deceptive.” But when I had seen Messrs. Quibble & Lye on the subject, it really seemed as though for once they had spoken the truth. Rushmere, the house in question, had been built and furnished for his own use by an old gentleman, who died shortly afterwards, and his heirs, not liking the situation, had placed the property in the agents’ hands for letting. The owners were wealthy, cared little for money, and had authorised the agents to let the house on any reasonable terms, and it was really a bargain to anyone that wanted it. They frankly admitted that the loneliness of the position of Rushmere was the reason of its cheapness; but when I heard the rent at which they offered to let me take it, if approved of, for three months, I was quite ready to agree with Messrs. Quibble & Lye in their idea of a bargain, and that, for those who liked solitude, Rushmere offered extraordinary advantages. Armed with the necessary authority, I found my way down into Monmouthshire, to inspect the premises on the following day; and when I saw Rushmere, I felt still more disposed to be surprised at the opportunity afforded me, and to congratulate myself on the promptitude with which I had embraced it. I found it to be a good-sized country house, comfortably furnished, and, to all appearance, well built, standing in enclosed grounds, and on a healthy elevation; but, notwithstanding its isolated situation, I was too much a man of the world to believe, under the circumstances, that its greatest disadvantage lay in that fact. Accordingly, I peered eagerly about for damp walls, covered cesspools, unsteady joists, or tottering foundations, but I could find none. “The chimneys smoke, I suppose?” I remarked, in a would-be careless tone, to the old woman whom I found in charge of the house, and who crept after me wherever I went. “Chimbleys smoke, sir? Not as I knows of.” “The roof leaks, perhaps?” “Deary me, no. You won’t find a spot of damp, look where you may.” “Then there’s been a fever, or some infectious disorder in the house?” “A fever, sir? Why, the place has been empty these six months. The last tenants left at Christmas.” “Empty for six months!” I exclaimed. “How long is it, then, since the gentleman who built it died?” “Old Mr. Bennett, sir? He’s been dead a matter of fifteen years or more.” “Indeed! Then why don’t the owners of the place sell it, instead of letting it stand vacant?” thought I to myself. But I did not say so to the old woman, who was looking up in my face, as though anxious to learn what my decision would be. “No vermin, I hope?” I suggested, as a last resource. “You are not troubled with rats or mice at night, are you?”