"'January 7th. Dr. Jago goes up to the Hall every morning. He told a friend of mine the other day that Mr. Denison was no worse than usual, and that he was only kept indoors by the cold winds.
"'February 3rd. Nothing seen of the Squire since my last report, and yet we have had a fortnight of beautiful open weather for the time of year. Jago daily visits the Hall as usual. I've made acquaintance with one Hannah Tilney, the gardener's wife at the lodge. Creeping in there one fine morning, my hand to my side, I begged to be allowed to sit for five minutes, telling her a thumping story about a weak heart. She is a decent woman, but fond of gossip, as they all are, and she had a queer thing to talk of. She said that ever since early in December the shutters of Mr. Denison's sitting-room had been closed and barred at dusk, although it was a well-known fact that all his life the Squire hated to sit in a room of which the shutters were closed or the blinds pulled down. I do not see much in this myself: old people's fancies change: but the woman seemed to think it very strange, a matter for speculation, and said that she and her husband could not understand it at all. Speculation of what, you will ask, and in truth I can't say: but an air of mystery seems to overhang the doings in the Hall.
"'March 1st. No news of the Squire. He is pretty well, it is said, but he has not been seen out of doors since the 17th of December. Nothing fresh at all to report, except that I have ascertained that every week there passes through Nullington Post Office a letter from abroad addressed to Mr. Denison in a lady's handwriting. Is this letter from Miss Winter? If so, can she be aware how matters are going on at Heron Dyke?
"'April 8th. Nothing fresh. Jago daily at the Hall. The Squire still invisible to the outer world. No visitors have been admitted for a long while.'"
Mr. Denison, having come to the last extract he deemed it needful to read, shut up his case, and looked at his son.
"Like the agent Nixon, I must say that I do not see much in all this myself," observed Frank.
"Don't you!" retorted his father. "I do, then. To me it looks remarkably unaccountable. There is a mystery about it that I can't fathom, and Charles Plackett has my instructions to go down to Heron Dyke."
"What to do, sir?"
"To see my cousin Gilbert, and satisfy himself by ocular demonstration that he is still alive, and--and mentally sane. You look surprised, Frank; let me tell you what perhaps you never knew before--that there is a clause in old Uncle Gilbert's will which empowers me to take the step in question."
"Is there! How curious that he should have made it."