The lane that led to Framley was wooded, and picturesque enough to draw a grudging word of approval from Charles. Peter, negotiating a hairpin bend, said: "Seriously, Chas, the place has possibilities."
"I don't deny it. But what's all this bilge about noises and hauntings, and footsteps in the dark?"
"God knows. In the village they all but cross themselves if you mention the Priory. I daresay there are rats. Milbank said…'
"Look here, do you mean to say you knew about this haunting before you came down here? And not one word to me?"
Peter said in some surprise: "I didn't think anything of it. You aren't going to tell me you'd have refused to live in the place if you'd known?"
"Aren't I?" said Charles grimly. "If you'd left as many desirable residences and hotels at a moment's notice as I have, all because Celia "felt something queer" about them, you'd never have come near the place."
"She says she doesn't believe there's anything wrong with the house. All village superstition."
"Does she? Well, I'll lay you six to one in sovereigns that the first rat heard scuttling overhead will spell our departure. Especially with Bowers shivering round the house."
"What's the matter with him? Been listening to village gossip?"
"That, and natural palsy of spirit. He unpacked my things and gave a life-like imitation of the mysterious butler of fiction while he did so. "All I know is, sir, I wouldn't go down those cellar stairs after dark, not if I were paid to." Oh yes, and I need hardly say that the first night he and Mrs. Bowers spent alone in the house before you came down, he heard footsteps outside his door, and a hand feeling over the panels."