“I don’t think they’d fit the present case,” said the canon. “He doesn’t look like a man who had come to grief through drink or anything of that sort.” “Petit chaudron, grandes oreilles,” murmured Aunt Caroline. “He is going to teach me singing,” said Grif quietly. “He gave me a lesson to-night.” Mr. Drummond’s thin lips closed more tightly. “I don’t think I should encourage that,” he persisted. “Nonsense! You’re prejudiced against him. After all, he’s a gentleman, even if he _is_ peculiar. What do _you_ say, Palmer?” This question was called forth by the remarkable attitude Palmer had just adopted. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes nearly closed, but on his face an expression of Sphinx-like attention. His hands were joined on his knee, the finger tips just lightly touching. Even Miss Johnson should have been aware that this was one of the favourite positions of Mr. Sherlock Holmes when tackling a problem. Yet Palmer’s freckled countenance failed so completely to recall that of the master that grandpapa alone had discovered the inner significance of his posture. “You must first have something definite to go on,” Palmer said. “The fact of his coming to live in the country doesn’t in itself constitute a clue. The thing is to find out a possible reason for his choosing this particular part of the country.” “Buried treasure wouldn’t do? Well, poor Bradley’s had a good many years to find it in.” Grif had been on the point of mentioning Mr. Bradley’s story of the ghost, but for some reason he now decided to keep silence. “Who is Billy Tremaine, grandpapa?” he asked. “Did the Batts mention him? That was rather unusual, for they don’t talk about him as a rule, even to their oldest friends.... He was the captain’s grandson, poor little chap.” “Yes, I know. But where is he now?” Then the truth dawned upon him. “He’s not――――” “He’s dead,” said the canon gravely. “Didn’t they tell you?” “No: they only said――something about showing me his room.” “They don’t talk of his death.... You see, he always lived with them. That was his home: they were all the relations he had. His mother died when he was born, and the father was drowned within the same year――his ship was lost and every one on board her. He was a fine boy; very intelligent; as bright a little fellow as I have ever seen. His death was a tremendous blow to them. In a way their whole existence was centred in that boy. Now, I dare say, they feel they have nothing very much to live for. The place will go to strangers――distant cousins or something like that. It is a pity.” “I must say I haven’t found either Captain Batt or his sisters very approachable myself,” the curate confessed. “Of course they’re perfectly civil, but one doesn’t really get to know them. I was quite unaware that the captain had ever been married, let alone that there had been a grandson.” His tone was slightly aggrieved, and won a sympathetic glance from Miss Johnson.