There was an air of authority about Mr. Armathwaite that disconcerted Betty more than Walker's bluster. She went out and closed the front door. The agent ran and opened it again. The girl was standing on the path, clear of the porch, and gazing wistfully at the house. "Will you mind your own business?" he grumbled. "The deuce take it, what's come to you to-day? You and your mother seem half crazy." "We don't like folk to see the place at its worst," she said, rather defiantly. "You're doing your best to turn Mr. Armathwaite against it, _I_ should think," was the angry comment. "Now, don't touch this door again, and clear out, d'ye hear?" Betty flushed. She was distressed, but dales' blood boils quickly when subjected to the fire of contumely. "I haven't asked such a favor," she said. "And you might keep a civil tongue in your head." Walker sniffed his annoyance. But why bandy words with this aggressive young woman? He swung on his heel. "Sorry you should have met with such a queer reception, Mr. Armathwaite," he said. "I can't account for it. I really can't. Perhaps Mrs. Jackson feels hurt that I didn't let her know you were coming, but----" "Never mind Mrs. Jackson or her daughter," said Armathwaite placidly. "I'll soon settle matters with them. Now, you have an inventory, I believe? Suppose we start here." "Then you've decided to take the house, sir?" "Yes, two hours ago, in Nuttonby." "I wish all our clients were like you," laughed Walker. "You know what you want and see that you get it.... Well, sir, as it happens, the inventory begins with the hall. I'll read, and you might note the items, stopping me if there's any doubt." The agent rattled through his task, but was pulled up several times in dining-room and drawing-room, when a picture or two, some Sheffield plate, and various bits of china were missing. Black doubt seized the sharp Walker when this had happened for the fourth time. In all, there were seven disappearances, and, in each instance, the article was old and fairly valuable. Country villages, he reflected, were ransacked nowadays by collectors of curios. When opportunity served, he and Mrs. Jackson would have some earnest words. But surprise and relief came in the discovery of the seven; they were piled, with a number of books, on a table in the library. "I suppose some kind of spring cleaning is going on," he said sheepishly. "Now the cat is out of the bag. Why the deuce didn't Betty say so, and have done with it!" "I imagine she was trying to tell us something of the sort," smiled the other unconcernedly. "Surely we have not got to check the titles of all these books?" "No, sir. They're lumped together--about eight hundred volumes." Armathwaite surveyed the shelves with the eye of a reader. "That must be nearly right," he said, after a little pause. "I must not get mine mixed with my predecessor's. I've brought nearly two hundred myself."