"And all the old families will receive the new king with open arms?"
"Ay, all as far as I know."
"I do not know the names of these families—at least not of all," I said, feeling my way towards the information I desired, "but you as an important man doubtless know them all."
"Ay," he replied, sitting back in his chair with a look of importance on his face. "There be the Jeffries and old Sir Michael Oldbury, and Admiral Billton, and Squire Barton, and my Lord Bridgman, and others. Most of them nod to me when they come to town."
"I think I have heard of a Master Pycroft," I said, "know you him?"
He shook his head. "No," he replied, "there be no man of note within ten miles of Folkestone who bears that name."
At this my heart seemed to sink in my shoes, for it seemed as though I had come on a fool's errand. Still I kept a brave face, and answered as though the matter were of no import.
"I must have mistaken the name," I said, "or perchance he lived in some other part of the country."
"Stay," said the man, "there is an old place called 'Pycroft,' but it hath been in ruins for years. It is an old house among the Pycroft woods, and is said to be haunted. No man lives there, but I have heard that an old miser had it long years ago. He was killed for his money, and ever since the place hath been infested by evil spirits. Years ago, about the time the king was beheaded, I mind me that I passed by it, but not a soul was to be seen. The windows were broken, and the gardens were all covered with weeds. Neither sight nor sound of living being could I see or hear. Even the birds seemed afraid to sing."
"What was the name of the miser?" I asked.