"She tried to make me believe that she woke up and saw this apparition, but I bullied the truth out of her, and, as I expected, the man Ord had come home the worse for drink. I made up my mind that the contorted face was the face of her drunken husband--whom she had declined to admit, and who therefore had climbed the ivy to get in at the open window." "She denied this?" "Of course she denied it; they both did; but, from evidence obtained at the _Three Keys_ in the village, I proved that Ord had returned home drunk that night. Still"--he shrugged his shoulders ponderously--"the people declined to remain in the place, so what could I do? Ord was a good gardener, and his drunken habits in no way interfered with his efficiency. He gained nothing out of the matter except that, instead of keeping Low Fennel, a fine house, I sent him to live in one of the Valley Cottages. He lives there now, for he's still head gardener at the Hall." I made an entry in my notebook. "I must see Ord," I said. "I should," agreed the Major in his loud voice; "you'll get nothing out of him. He's the most pig-headed liar in the county! But to continue. The place proved unlettable. All the old stories were revived, and I'm told that people cheerfully went two miles out of their way in order to avoid passing Low Fennel at night! When I sold the Hall and decided to lease the place from the new proprietor, believe me it was almost hidden in a wilderness of weeds and bushes which had grown up around it. By the Lord Harry, I don't think a living soul had approached within a hundred yards of the house since the day that the Ords quitted it! But it suited my purpose, being inexpensive to keep up; and by adding this new wing I was enabled to accommodate such servants as we required. The horses and the car had to go, of course, and with them a lot of my old people, but we brought the housekeeper and three servants, and when a London firm had rebuilt, renovated, decorated, and so forth, it began to look habitable." "It's a charming place," I said with sincerity. "Is it!" snapped the Major, tossing his half-smoked cigar on to a side table and selecting a fresh one from a large box at his elbow. "Help yourself, the bottle's near you. Is it!... Hullo! what have we here?" He broke off, cigar in hand, as the sound of footsteps upon the gravel path immediately outside the window became audible. Through the cluster of roses peered a handsome face, that of a dark man, whose soft-grey hat and loose tie lent him a sort of artistic appearance. "Oh, it's you, Wales!" cried the Major, but without cordiality. "See you in half an hour or so; little bit of business in hand at the moment, Marjorie's somewhere about." "All right!" called the new arrival, and, waving his hand, passed on. "It's young Aubrey Wales," explained Dale, almost savagely biting the end from his cigar, "son of Sir Frederick Wales, and one of my neighbours. He often drops in."