Mary shook her head, smiling, glad to be able to smile with plausible reason. "I'm not as fond of rash speculations as you are, Mr. Beaumaroy."
"It may be worth more than it looks," he pursued. "Good neighbourhood, healthy air, fruitful soil—very rich soil hereabouts."
"My dear Beaumaroy, the land about here is abominable," Naylor expostulated.
"Perhaps generally, but some rich pockets—what one may call pockets," corrected Beaumaroy.
"I'm not an agriculturist," remarked weaselly Mr. Radbolt in his oily tones.
"And then there's a picturesque old yarn told about it. Oh, whether it's true or not, of course I don't know. It's about a certain Captain Duggle—not the army—the Mercantile Marine, Mrs. Radbolt. You know the story, Dr. Arkroyd? And you too, Mr. Naylor? You're the oldest inhabitant of Inkston present, sir. Suppose you tell it to Mr. and Mrs. Radbolt? I'm sure it will make them attach a new value to this really very attractive cottage—with, as Dr. Arkroyd says, the additional feature of the Tower."
"I know the story only as a friend of mine—Mr. Penrose—who takes great interest in local records and traditions, told it to me. If our host desires, I shall be happy to tell it to Mrs. Radbolt." Mr. Naylor accompanied his words with a courtly little bow to that lady, and launched upon the legend of Captain Duggle.
Mr. Radbolt was a religious man. At the end of the story he observed gravely, "The belief in diabolical personalities is not to be lightly dismissed, Mr. Beaumaroy."
"I'm entirely of your opinion, Mr. Radbolt." This time Mary felt that her smile was not so plausible.
"There seems to have been nothing in the grave," mused Mrs. Radbolt.