"Of course she is; an' a very good girl, too. When she's 'ere--which ain't very often, more's the pity--she does a great deal of good in the village--visits the old people, looks after the coal club, and gives away quite a lot of money to the deserving people who are destitute. I only wish there were more like 'er in these 'ere parts." "Does she often come here?" "Oh! two or three times a year," answered the landlord. "Some say she lives up in London with 'er aunt, and others declare that she's mostly abroad with 'er father. I believe the latter story. She 'as a foreign way about 'er, and I've 'eard the servants say as 'ow all 'er things are made abroad." "Then nobody knows her address?" I said. "Seems not. But she's very fond of 'er father, and no doubt is always with him." "Do they have many friends at the Manor when Mr Miller and his daughter are at home?" "Not many. Dr Haviland often dines with 'em." "I don't mean local friends--visitors from London." "Very few. I've known one or two, but they've all been forriners. Mr Miller seems to like them forriners some'ow. But I don't," declared the old fellow. "They're too infernal polite and sleeky for me. I wouldn't trust any of 'em for a pint o' beer." "They were gentlemen, I suppose?" "Oh, dear, yes--full of fine graces and fine manners. They wore shoes like women, and shirts pleated like women's blouses--great swells, I can assure you." "You never heard of any of their names?" "No, how was I to 'ear? Once two of 'em came in one hot day and jabbered, sayin' `_boch! boch_!' an' grinnin' all over their faces. It was quite a long time before I discovered that they wanted two half-pints o' bitter. I suppose _boch_ is what they calls it in French." "Yes," I laughed. "You're quite right." The strangers had evidently been French, I reflected. Had they been Italian they would have asked for _birra_. Regarding Lucie, I learnt that on several occasions, while she had been at home, a young, black-moustached foreigner had been guest at the Manor, and that she frequently drove him out in the dogcart. My host did not know the visitor's name. He described him, however, as tall and thin with a narrow hatchet face, black eyes and moustaches that turned up at the ends. "They passed up and down the village once or twice on their way to the post-office, and I 'eard 'em talking in some gibberish," added the old fellow, as he raised his tankard to his lips. Like all his race in the rural districts, he had no love for the foreigner, be he whatever he might. In his estimation every person from beyond the Channel was "a froggie." That evening I went for my usual lonely stroll by the sea, while all next day I spent in watchful vigil in the vicinity of the Manor. Though for hours I idled concealed in the park, within view of the stately old home of the Millers, my patience was unrewarded. No sign of Lucie did I see, either at any of the windows or in the old rose-garden.