"No. There's an old gentleman and two ladies; one of them an old woman."
"And what's the old gentleman's name, and the young lady's?"
"Don't know, indeed; and what does it matter?" The attorney was curious, and had taken some little trouble to find out. "The Reverend Isaac Dixie's the tenant, and Miss Sheckleton manages the family business; and devil a letter ever comes by post here, except to Miss Sheckleton or the servants."
"Old Mother Jones, the draper's wife, over the way, says the girl and the old fellow are mad."
"Don't believe it. More likely he's in a fix, and wants to keep out of sight and hearing just now, and Malory's the very place to hide a fellow in. It's just possible, you know, there may be a screw loose in the upper works; but I don't believe it, and don't for the world hint it to the old lady. She's half mad herself about mad people, and if she took that in her head, by Jove, she'd never forgive me," and the attorney laughed uneasily.
"You do think they're mad. By Jove, you do. I know you think they're mad."
"I don't think they're mad. I don't know anything about them," said the good-humoured attorney, with Dundreary whiskers, leaning on the wooden pillar of the Verney Arms, and smiling provokingly in the young man's face.
"Come now, Wynne, I'll not tell the old lady, upon my honour. You may as well tell me all you know. And you do know; of course, you do; you always know. And these people living not a mile away! You must know."
"I see how it is. She's a pretty girl, and you want to pick up all about her, by way of inquiring after the old gentleman."
Verney laughed, and said—