“I have no theory, sir. Mr. Glenarm always warned me against theories. He said—if you will pardon me— there was great danger in the speculative mind.” The man spoke with a slight Irish accent, which in itself puzzled me. I have always been attentive to the peculiarities of speech, and his was not the brogue of the Irish servant class. Larry Donovan, who was English-born, used on occasions an exaggerated Irish dialect that was wholly different from the smooth liquid tones of Bates. But more things than his speech were to puzzle me in this man. “The person in the canoe? How do you account for her?” I asked. “I haven’t accounted for her, sir. There’s no women on these grounds, or any sort of person except ourselves.” “But there are neighbors,—farmers, people of some kind must live along the lake.” “A few, sir; and then there’s the school quite a bit beyond your own west wall.” His slight reference to my proprietorship, my own wall, as he put it, pleased me. “Oh, yes; there is a school—girls?—yes; Mr. Pickering mentioned it. But the girls hardly paddle on the lake at night, at this season—hunting ducks—should you say, Bates?” “I don’t believe they do any shooting, Mr. Glenarm. It’s a pretty strict school, I judge, sir, from all accounts.” “And the teachers—they are all women?” “They’re the Sisters of St. Agatha, I believe they call them. I sometimes see them walking abroad. They’re very quiet neighbors, and they go away in the summer usually, except Sister Theresa. The school’s her regular home, sir. And there’s the little chapel quite near the wall; the young minister lives there; and the gardener’s the only other man on the grounds.” So my immediate neighbors were Protestant nuns and school-girls, with a chaplain and gardener thrown in for variety. Still, the chaplain might be a social resource. There was nothing in the terms of my grandfather’s will to prevent my cultivating the acquaintance of a clergyman. It even occurred to me that this might be a part of the game: my soul was to be watched over by a rural priest, while, there being nothing else to do, I was to give my attention to the study of architecture. Bates, my guard and housekeeper, was brushing the hearth with deliberate care. “Show me my cell,” I said, rising, “and I’ll go to bed.” He brought from somewhere a great brass candelabrum that held a dozen lights, and explained: “This was Mr. Glenarm’s habit. He always used this one to go to bed with. I’m sure he’d wish you to have it, sir.” I thought I detected something like a quaver in the man’s voice. My grandfather’s memory was dear to him. I reflected, and I was moved to compassion for him. “How long were you with Mr. Glenarm, Bates?” I inquired, as I followed him into the hall. “Five years, sir. He employed me the year you went abroad. I remember very well his speaking of it. He greatly admired you, sir.” He led the way, holding the cluster of lights high for my guidance up the broad stairway.