"All right," Birdwood announced. "I'll get hold of someone for you in less than half a pig's whisper."
"But not all the time," Guy explained quickly. He was worried by the prospect of a gardener's wages coming out of his small income.
"Once a week he'll come in," said Birdwood.
Guy nodded.
"What's his name?"
"Graves he's called, but being deaf and dumb, his name's not of much account."
"Deaf and dumb?" repeated Guy. "But how shall I explain what I want done?"
"I'll show you," said Birdwood. "I'll come round and put you in the way of managing him. Work? I reckon that boy would work any other mortal in Wychford to the bone. Work? Well, he can't hear nothing, and he can't say nothing, so what else can he do? And he does it. Good afternoon, Mr. Hazlenut."
And Birdwood retired, whistling very shrilly as he went down the path to the gate.
Two nights later, Guy with lighted lantern in his hand set out to the Rectory. He did not venture to go by the orchard and the fields and so, crossing the narrow bridge over the stream, enter by way of the garden. Such an approach seemed too familiar for the present stage of his friendship, and he took the more formal route through an alley of mediaeval cottages that branched off Wychford High Street. Mysterious lattices blinked at him, and presently he felt the wind coming fresh in his face as he skirted the churchyard. The road continued past the back of a long row of almshouses, and when he saw the pillared gate of the Rectory drive, over which high trees were moaning darkly, Guy wondered if he were going to a large dinner-party. No word had been said of any one else's coming, but with Mrs. Grey's vagueness that portended nothing. He hoped that he would be the only guest and, swinging his lantern with a pleased expectancy, he passed down the drive. Suddenly a figure materialized from the illumination he was casting and hailed him with a questioning 'hulloa'?