"We don't see enough of her, an' that's a fact," said the barber. "She must find life rather dull, cooped up there as she is, for all that it's a grand house an' a fine park. They never had company like the other big houses. A few bald-headed City men an' their wives for an occasional week end in the summer or when the coverts were shot in October--never any nice young people. Miss Sylvia wept when the rector's daughter got married last year, an' well I knew why--she was losin' her only chum." "Surely there are scores of good families in this neighborhood?" "Plenty, sir, but nearly all county. The toffs never did take on the Fenleys, an', to be fair, I don't believe the poor man who's dead ever bothered his head about them." "But Miss Manning can not have lived here all her life? She must have been abroad, at school, for instance?" "Well, yes, sir. I remember her comin' home from Brussels two years ago. But school ain't society. The likes of her, with all her money, should mix with her own sort." "Is she so wealthy, then?" "She's Mr. Fenley's ward, an' the servants at The Towers say she'll come in for a heap when she's twenty-one, which will be next year." Somehow, this item of gossip, confirming Eliza's statement, was displeasing. Sylvia Manning, nymph of the lake, receded to some dim altitude where the high and mighty are enthroned. Biting his pipe viciously, Trenholme sought the solitude of a woodland footpath, and tried to find distraction in studying the effects of diffused light. Returning to the inn about tea time, he was angered anew by a telegram from the magazine editor. It read: _News in Pictures_ wants sketches and photographs of Fenley case and surroundings. Have suggested you for commission. Why not pick up a tenner? Rush drawings by train. "That's the last straw," growled Trenholme fiercely. He raced out, bought a set of picture postcards showing the village and the Tudor mansion, and dispatched them to the editor of _News in Pictures_ with his compliments. Coming back from the station, he passed the Easton lodge of The Towers. A daring notion seized him, and he proceeded to put it into practice forthwith. He presented himself at the gate, and was faced by Mrs. Bates and a policeman. Taught by experience to beware of strangers that day, the keeper's wife gazed at him through an insurmountable iron palisade. The constable merely surveyed him with a professional air, as one who would interfere if needful. "I am calling on Miss Sylvia Manning," announced Trenholme promptly. "By appointment, sir?" "No, but I have reason to believe that she would wish to see me." "My orders are that nobody is to be admitted to the house without written instructions, sir." "How can Miss Manning give written instructions unless she knows I am here?" "Them's my orders," said Mrs. Bates firmly.