"Yes. Your grandfather, as you know, was something of an explorer, and searched for hidden treasure among the buried cities of Central America. I was telling Leigh about the diary, and he wants to have another look at it," Mallien chuckled. "I shouldn't wonder if the old man wanted to go to Yucatan himself, since he is cracked on old buildings." By this time, the vicar was knocking at the door, and Titus Ark was staring sourly round the garden. He was the sexton and the vicar's shadow, a dour ancient, who said little and thought much. Dorinda, not wishing to see the vicar, who rather bored her with his archeological discourses, went into the kitchen to attend to her domestic duties, while her father opened the front door to receive his visitors in his usual ungracious manner. "What on earth brings you here, vicar?" he demanded brusquely, although he had just explained to his daughter why the visit had been made; "and why do you always have that old ass at your heels, Mr. Simon Leigh, parson of Barship Parish, God help the people?" grumbled Mallien, as he pushed his visitor into a chair and banged the door. "Titus," said Leigh in his precise tones. "Oh, we were boys together--that is, he was a young man when I was a boy. Poor fellow, his generation lies under the ground, so I take him about to comfort him with talk about old times. He quite brightens up when we have our talks and walks." "I'd brighten him if I had the power," growled the gracious host. "He ought to be under the turf with his confounded generation, or in the workhouse. I don't see any use for such a stiff-jointed old skeleton being above ground." "He is eighty," said Mr. Leigh, placidly. "Great age. A comfortable room this, Mr. Mallien; there is something of the sybarite about you." "Don't call names, vicar. The room is less like a pig sty than yours, and that is the best to be said about it." "I often wonder, Mr. Mallien, that with your bringing up, you have not learned better manners," said Leigh, putting on his pince-nez and blinking. "You are certainly a most ill-conducted person. You should marry, and see if the softening influence of the feminine nature----" Mallien turned from a cupboard of black oak, in which he was rummaging, and answered viciously. "I have been married." "Dear me," mused the vicar, as if aware of this for the first time, "so you have been. And how is Miss Dorinda?" "I believe his wits are going," grumbled Mallien to himself: then raised his voice. "She's busy, and can't waste her time in seeing you. Here"--he flung a heavy sheaf of papers on the table--"this is the diary kept by my silly father when he was treasure hunting in Yucatan. Old fool, he got nothing but rheumatism. If he'd found gold and jewels, there would have been some sense in his explorations. Don't you think so? don't you think so? don't you? Oh, hang you, vicar; one might as well call the dead."