“Getting on the track of former tenants, they plied them with cautious questions; it was of no avail, the bait did not take; they could ascertain nothing. Then they gave up—and the truth at last leaked out.
“One dreary afternoon in a particularly dreary November, I believe it was the fourth of November, the Rev. Silas Wetherby, vicar of an adjoining Parish, called on them.
“They were delighted to see him; Mrs. Hartley was fond of the clergy; her father and uncles and brothers were all in the Church; she had lived in a clerical atmosphere from the day she was born.
“But the Rev. Silas Wetherby puzzled her. Had he been a deacon, a locum, or a newly ordained curate, she would have passed him over as excusably shy; but he was too old a stager for that. Why did he puzzle her, then? He was orthodox, urbane, and—she would stake her handkerchief—no small tatler of ecclesiastical gossip, but yet there was something amiss with him, something that made him pause, something that made him fidget.
“Probably she never would have found out why he behaved in such an odd manner but for an unexpected occurrence.
“Without even as much as a rap, Bobby, their youngest boy, who is, as a rule, very shy before visitors, suddenly burst into the room. He was pale with excitement.
“‘Oh, do come, mummy,’ he cried, ‘there is such a queer old man in such a quaint dress on the staircase. He is coughing horribly. I fancy he must be very sick. Do come, mummy—please.’
“Mr. Wetherby’s behaviour was now odd in the extreme. Half rising from his seat and trembling all over, he pointed his finger violently at the door.
“‘Run away, little man,’ he said, ‘run away! No one is coughing now. Your invalid has recovered, he is gone. Go directly, and shut the door behind you. Mind—shut the door, and keep clear of the staircase,’ and Bobby, completely at a loss what to make of this despotic stranger, beat a hasty retreat.