"There's Low Fennel," said Major Dale.
We pulled up short on the brow of the hill. Before me lay a little valley carpeted with heather, purple slopes hemming it in. A group of four tall firs guarded the house, which was couched in the hollow of the dip-a low, rambling building, in parts showing evidence of great age and in other parts of the modern improver.
"That's the new wing," continued the Major, raising his stick; "projecting out this way. It's the only addition I've made to the house, which, as it stood, had insufficient accommodation for the servants."
"It is a quaint old place."
"It is, and I'm loath to part with it, especially as it means a big loss."
"Ah! Have you formed any theories since wiring me?"
"None whatever. I've always been a sceptic, Addison, but if Low Fennel is not haunted, I'm a Dutchman, by the Lord Harry!"
I laughed reassuringly, and the two of us descended the slope to the white gate giving access to a trim gravel path flanked by standard roses. Mrs. Dale greeted us at the door. She was, as I had heard, much younger than the Major, and a distinctly pretty woman. In so far Dame Rumour was confirmed; other things I had heard of her, but I was not yet in a position to pass judgment.
She greeted me cordially enough, although women are usually natural actresses. I thought that she did not suspect the real object of my visit. Tea was served in a delightful little drawing-room which bore evidence of having but recently left the hands of London decorators, but when presently I found myself alone with my host in the Major's peculiar sanctum, the real business afoot monopolised our conversation.