Dad's face brightened, but clouded again instantly.
"You mean—er—the house 'round the corner?" he said, pursing his lips.
"Yes."
"I'm afraid it wouldn't suit."
"Why not?" put in the stranger. "I rather like the name."
"I didn't mention any name, sir," and Walker, senior, still looked glum.
"You described it as the house 'round the corner—an excellent name. It attracts me. Where is Elmdale?"
The head of the firm pointed to a map of the North Riding hanging above the fireplace.
"Here you are," he said, seizing a pen and running it along the meandering black line of a stream. "Eight miles from Nuttonby, and thousands from every other town—on the edge of the moor—about forty houses in the village—and a first-rate beck, with trout running from four ounces to half a pound—but——"
"But what?"