But the maid continued to scream "Master! Thieves! Murder!" And her cries brought a strange clergyman into the hall, who appeared not to like the look of me.
"What is this? Who are you? What is your business?" he asked, all in a breath.
"I would see Mistress Graves," I answered.
"Mistress Graves is with her husband in Lincoln, as every one in the parish knows," said the parson, eyeing me more mistrustfully.
"In Lincoln!" I echoed in amazement. Then I remembered that the vicar held some appointment at the minster—a prælectorship, or sub-prælectorship, I believe it was called—which took him to the city at stated times.
"In Lincoln," repeated the parson. "Therefore you can have no further business here."
"And have they taken their servants?" I asked. "They would not need the gardener: is he not here?"
"There are men on the premises," he answered, "but you will find the vicar's gardener at his cottage, I dare say."
And he motioned with his hand toward the door.
"Oh, I am not to be so dismissed," I blurted out. "I am Mistress Graves' nephew, Vavasour."