“She was my mother’s sister,” answered mother, quietly, “but I knew her very slightly. I saw her only three or four times in my life. I know she had queer ideas—that is, indeed, about all I do know about her. Pray speak as frankly as you like.”
“Of course,” went on Mr. Chester, “I have no personal knowledge of what went on over there, but I’ve heard weird tales of his doings in other quarters. He came here over a year ago—nobody knows from where. He lives in a little cottage some distance down the road, and is said to have many visitors, especially at night, though that may be mere gossip. The only other occupant of the place is an old woman who acts as housekeeper and general factotum. The house stands so far back from the road and is so surrounded by shrubbery that no one can see what goes on there. It belonged to an eccentric old bachelor, who lived alone there and who surrounded it with a grove of evergreens to keep the world away, I suppose. There are all sorts of stories told about it, but most of them are pure fictions.”
“Mr. Tunstall seems to be quite a character,” commented mother.
“He is,” agreed Mr. Chester; “but aside from his disagreeable personality, there is really nothing against him, except that he seems to have no adequate means of support. I believe that the stories about his nocturnal visitors are largely myths, and as far as his other practise is concerned, it can’t be very lucrative. I’ve never heard that he ever attempted to obtain money illegally, and I think it’s as much because he has no visible means of livelihood as from any other cause that people distrust him. Mrs. Nelson’s case is the first in which I’ve had reason to suspect he used undue influence—and that’s only a suspicion. In fact,” he added, reflectively, “now that I try to formulate some charge against him, I find there isn’t anything to get hold of.”
“There’s such a thing as circumstantial evidence,” remarked Mrs. Chester; “and one’s instincts go for something.”
“I don’t know,” rejoined her husband, thoughtfully; “I don’t altogether trust what you call instinct. I’ve seen it go wrong too often. I’ve always fancied that Tunstall is a much cleverer man than he appears to be—too clever by half to be wasting his time the way he seems to be doing. He’s absent a good deal—drives away in his buggy—yes, he keeps a horse—and doesn’t come back for days and days. Where he goes nobody knows.”
“I declare, dear,” said Mrs. Chester, laughing, “you’re growing quite poetic over Mr. Tunstall. But for all that, I still contend it would be a real affliction to have him for a neighbour.”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Mr. Chester; “he’s not an engaging person, I grant you that; and I should be very sorry indeed to have him move in next door; more especially,” he added, looking at us, “since that would mean that our present neighbours must move out. We want you to keep the place.”
“We should like to keep it, too, of course,” said mother, smiling a little wistfully, “but I’m afraid that Aunt Nelson has set us a problem we shall never be able to solve.”
“Biffkins has already had one try at it, though,” put in Dick, slyly.