er thoughts; and, connected with it, there arose a
puzzle over Dr. Irechester's demeanor. She had taken advantage of
Beaumaroy's permission, though rather doubtful whether she was doing
right, for she was still inexperienced in niceties of etiquette, and sent
on the letter, with a frank note explaining her own feelings and the
reason which had caused her to pay her visit to Mr. Saffron. But though
Irechester was quite friendly when they met at Old Place before dinner,
and talked freely to her during a rather prolonged period of waiting
(Captain Alec and Cynthia, Gertie and two subalterns were very late,
having apparently forgotten dinner in more refined delights), he made no
reference to the letters, nor to Tower Cottage or its inmates. Mary
herself was too shy to break the ice, but wondered at his silence, and
the more because the matter evidently had not gone out of his mind. For
after dinner, when the port had gone round once and the proper healths
been honored, he said across the table to Mr. Penrose:

"We were talking the other day of the Tower, on the heath, you know, by
old Saffron's cottage, and none of us knew its history. You know all
about Inkston from time out o' mind. Have you got any story about it?"

Mr. Penrose practiced as a solicitor in London, but lived in a little old
house near the Irechesters' in the village street, and devoted his
leisure to the antiquities and topography of the neighborhood; his lore
was plentiful and curious, if not important. He was a small, neat old
fellow, with white whiskers of the antique cut, a thin voice, and a dry
cackling laugh.

"There was a story about it, and one quite fit for Christmas evening, if
you're in the mood to hear it."

The thin voice was penetrating. At the promise of a story silence fell on
the company, and Mr. Penrose told his tale, vouching as his authority an
erstwhile "oldest inhabitant," now gathered to his fathers; for the tale
dated back some eighty years, to the date of the ancient's early manhood.

A seafaring man had suddenly appeared, out of space, as it were, at
Inkston, and taken the cottage. He carried with him a strong smell of rum
and tobacco, and gave it to be understood that his name was Captain
Duggle. He was no beauty, and his behavior was worse than his looks. To
that quiet village, in those quiet strait-laced times, he was a horror
and a portent. He not only drank prodigiously--that, being in character
and also a source of local