"Well, this is curious, to say the least of it," he reflected. "I hope they are not both dead in the house together." After awhile he seized the door handle and gave the door a good rattle, but no one responded to the assault, and with a puzzled expression in his eyes William heaved a sigh, and began to retrace his steps towards the village. "I'll go to Budda," he said to himself. "A policeman ought to know what to do for the best. Anyhow, if a policeman breaks into a house, nobody gets into trouble for it." And he quickened his pace till he was almost out of breath. As good luck would have it, he met Budda half-way up the village, and at once took him into his confidence. Budda put on an expression of great profundity. "I think we ought to break into the house," William said hurriedly. This proposition Budda negatived at once. To do what anyone else advised would show lack of originality on the part of the force. If William had suggested that they ask Dick Lowry the smith to pick the lock, Budda would have gone at once and battered the door down. Initiative and originality are the chief characteristics of the men in blue. "Let me see," said Budda, looking wise and stroking his chin with great tenderness, "Amos Bice the auctioneer is the landlord, if I'm not greatly mistook." "Then possibly he knows something?" William said anxiously. "Possibly he do," Budda answered oracularly. "I will walk on and see him." "I will walk along with you," William replied. "I confess I'm getting a bit curious. Everybody knows, of course, that they're terribly hard up, though I must say they've paid cash down for everything got at my store." "Been disposing of their furniture, I hear," Budda said shortly. "So it is reported," William replied. "That implies sore straits, and they are not the sort of people, by all accounts, to ask for help." "Would die sooner," Budda replied laconically. "Then perhaps they're dead," William said, with a little gasp. "It must be terrible hard for people who have known better days." Amos Bice looked up with a start when Budda and William Menire entered his small office. "I have come to inquire," Budda began, quite ignoring his companion, "if you know anything about--well, about what has become of the Penlogans?" "Well, I do--of course," he said, slowly and reflectively; though why he should have added "of course" was not quite clear. William began to breathe a little more freely. Budda looked disappointed. Budda revelled in mysteries, and when a mystery was cleared up all the interest was taken out of it. "Then you know where they are?" Budda questioned shortly. "I know where the mother is--I am not so sure of the daughter. But naturally it is not a matter that I care to talk about, particularly as they did not wish their doings to be the subject of common gossip." "May I ask why you do not care to talk about them?" Budda questioned severely.