," she began, "in the grounds
behind these gardens. I was wondering if it would be possible to procure
a permit to go over them, Mr. Gillon."

"Do you mean for yourself, Miss Brabazon?"

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact I do."

As she spoke I could not but notice that she glanced ever so slightly
towards the house behind her, and that her voice had fallen to a murmur,
while a mottled colouring appeared between the lines of her guileless
visage.

"I'm afraid I can't do anything," I said. "But the Vicar could, Miss
Brabazon!" I added with conviction. "A line from him to Sir Christopher
Stainsby----"

I stopped because Miss Julia shook her head so decidedly.

"That would never do, Mr. Gillon. Sir Christopher is such a very rabid
Dissenter."

"So I have heard," I admitted, thinking rather of what I had seen. "But
I don't believe he's as narrow as you think."

"I couldn't trouble the Vicar about it, in any case," said Miss
Brabazon, hurriedly. "I shouldn't even like him to know that I had
troubled you, Mr. Gillon. He's such a severe critic that I never tell
him what I'm writing until it's finished."

"Then you are writing something about Witching Hill House, Miss
Brabazon?"

"I was thinking of it. I haven't begun. But I never saw any place that I
felt such a desire to write about. The old house in the old woods, say a
hundred years ago! Don't you think it an ideal scene for a story, Mr.
Gillon?"

"It depends on the story you want to tell," said I, sententiously.

A strange light was burning in the weak eyes of Miss Julia. It might
almost have been a flicker of the divine fire. But now she dropped her
worn eyelids, and gazed into the road with the dreamy cunning of the
born creator.

"I should have quite a plot," she decided. "It would be ... yes, it
would be about some extraordinary person who lived in there, in the wood
and the house, only of course ages and ages ago. I think I should make
him--in fact I'm quite sure he would be--a very wicked person, though of
course he'd have to come all right in the end."

"You must be thinking of the man who really did live there."

"Who was that?"

"The infamous Lord Mulcaster."

"Really, Mr. Gillon? I don't think I ever heard of him. Of course I know
the present family by name; aren't these Delavoyes connected with them
in some way?"

I explained the connection as I knew it, which was not very thoroughly.
But I unfortunately said enough to cause a rapid fall in