"Very well, then," he continued. "This makes the unsettler's opportunity. You return to the agent and tell him that the only house you liked is (say) a white one at East Windles.
"'It was not one on your list,' you say; 'in fact, it was occupied. It is the house on the left, in its own grounds, just as you enter the village. There is a good lawn, and a wonderful clipped yew hedge.'
"'Oh yes,' says the agent, 'I know it: it used to be the Rectory.'
"'Who lives there?' you ask.
"'An old lady named Burgess,' says the agent—'Miss Burgess.'
"'Would she leave?' you ask.
"'I should very much doubt it,' says the agent, 'but I could, of course, sound her.'
"'I'll give you twenty-five pounds,' you say, 'if you can induce her to quit.' And off you go.
"It is then that the unsettler comes in. The agent sends for me and tells me the story; and I get to work. The old lady has got to be dislodged. Now what is it that old ladies most dislike? I ask myself. It depends, of course; but on general principles a scare about the water is safe, and a rumour of ghosts is safe. The water-scare upsets the mistress, the ghost-scare upsets the maids; and when one can't get maids, the country becomes a bore. As it is, she had the greatest difficulty in keeping them, because there's no cinema near.
"Very well, then. Having decided on my line of action, I begin to spread reports—very cautiously, of course, but with careful calculation, and naturally never appearing myself; and gradually, bit by bit, Miss Burgess takes a dislike to the place. Not always, of course. Some tenants are most unreasonable. But sooner or later most of them fall to the bait, and you get the house. That's my profession."