Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England The Story of Antony Grace By George Manville Fenn Illustrations by Gordon Browne Published by D. Appleton and Company, New York. This edition dated 1888. The Story of Antony Grace, by George Manville Fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ THE STORY OF ANTONY GRACE, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. THE MAN IN POSSESSION. Mr Rowle came the day after the funeral, walking straight in, and, nodding to cook, who opened the door, hung up his shabby hat in the hall. Then, to my surprise, he took it down again, and after gazing into it as Mr Blakeford used to do in his when he came over to our church, he turned it round, made an offer as if about to put it on wrong way first, reconsidered the matter, put it on in the regular way, and as it seemed to me drew his sword. But it was not his sword, only a very long clay pipe which he had been carrying up his left sleeve, with the bowl in his hand. Then, thrusting the said hand into his tail-pocket, he brought out a little roll of tobacco, upon which was printed, as I afterwards saw, a small woodcut, and the conundrum, "When is a door not a door?" "Ho!" said cook; "I suppose you're the--" "That's just what I am, my dear," said the stranger, interrupting her; "and my name's Rowle. Introduced by Mr Blakeford; and just fetch me a light." "Which you'd best fetch this gentleman a light, Master Antony," said cook; "for I ain't going to bemean myself." As she spoke she made a sort of whirlwind in the hall, and whisked herself out of the place, slamming the door at the end quite loudly. "Waxey!" said Mr Rowle, looking hard at me, and shutting one eye in a peculiar way. "Got a light, young un?" "Yes," I said, feeling sorry that cook should have been so rude to the visitor; and as I hurried into the study to get a match out of the little bronze stand, and lit the curled-up wax taper that my father used to seal his particular letters, I found that Mr Rowle had followed me, tucking little bits of tobacco in the pipe-bowl as he came. He then proceeded to look about, stooped down and punched the big leather-covered chair, uttered a grunt, took the taper, lit his pipe, and began to smoke. "Now then, squire," he said, "suppose you and I have a look round." There was such a calm at-homeness about him that the thought struck me that he must somehow belong to the place now; and I gazed at him with a feeling akin to awe.