“Because he’s a sweep,” said Audrey. “He doesn’t play the game. He shoves up the rents, he never does any repairs, he makes them pay for grazing on Mesne Holms, he stopped a funeral going by Witchery Drive, and worst of all, he never comes near the place. I know you’re his agent’s pupil, but that doesn’t alter the facts.”
“I’ve only been here a month,” said Christopher John, “and the agent in question has left me to shift for myself. At the moment I think he’s——”
“He’s with his master,” said Audrey, “trying to temper the wind. Everyone says he’s all right. He does his best, but the Lord of the Manor’s a sweep. He won’t hear a word. Warthog’s sick and tired of doing his dirty work—says so openly.”
Christopher frowned.
“Perhaps, if he came to Sundial——”
“But he won’t,” said Audrey, sitting up and smacking the turf with her palm. “Warthog’s implored him to come time and again. He says he believes it’s because he hasn’t the face.”
Christopher sighed.
“Well, well,” he said. “There’s nothing like a fool in his folly. Fancy owning Sundial, an’ letting it rip. . . . An’ a pew like a loose-box. . . . Still, it’s an ill wind. If he’s such a sweep, we’re better without the gent. Would you like to see the house—‘that Jack built’?”
“The Manor House? Rather.”
“I’m going to-morrow—officially, at ten o’ the clock.”