and out of the beaten track of summer visitors. Suddenly, the son cried:
"Elmdale is the very place, dad!"
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?"
"The house, sir. You won't like the house."
"What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing. It's comfortable enough, and well furnished."
Yet again he hesitated.
"Why, it appears to be, as your son said, the very place."
Walker, senior, smiled drearily. He knew what was coming.
"I can't recommend it, sir, and for this reason. A gentleman named Garth – Mr. Stephen Garth; some sort of professor, I understand – lived there a many years, with his wife and daughter. Nice, quiet people they were, and the young lady was a beauty. No one could make out why they should wish to be buried alive in a hole like Elmdale, but they seemed happy enough. Then, two years since, in this very month of June, Mrs. Garth and the girl drove into Nuttonby in their governess car, and went off by train, sending the trap back by a hired man. Mr. Garth mooned about for a week or two, and then hanged himself one evening alongside a grandfather's clock which stands in the hall. That made a rare stir, I can tell you; since then, no one will look at the Grange, which is its proper name. I need hardly say that the villagers have seen Mr. Garth's ghost many times, particularly in June, because in that month the setting sun throws a peculiar shadow through a stained-glass window on the half landing. Last year I let the place to a Sheffield family who wanted moorland air. My! What a row there was when Mrs. Wilkins heard of the suicide, and, of course, saw the ghost! It was all I could do to stave off an action for damages. 'Never again,' said I. 'If anybody else rents or buys the house, they take the ghost with it.'"
"Is it for sale?"
"Oh, yes! Neither Mrs. Garth nor Miss Marguérite have come near Elmdale since they left. They didn't attend the funeral, and I may add, in confidence, that Messrs. Holloway & Dobb, solicitors in this town, who have charge of their affairs – so far as the ownership of the Grange goes, at any rate – do not know their whereabouts. It is a sad story, sir."
The would-be tenant was apparently unmoved by the story's sadness.
"What kind of house is it?" he inquired.
"Old-fashioned, roomy, with oaken rafters, and a Jacobean grate in the dining-room. Five bedrooms. Fine garden, with its own well, fed by a spring. The kind of seventeenth-century dwelling that would fetch a high rent nowadays if near a town. As it is, I'd be glad to take sixty pounds a year for it, or submit an offer."
"Furnished?"
"Yes, sir, and some decent stuff in it, too. I'm surprised Messrs. Holloway & Dobb don't sell that, anyhow; but I believe they have a sort of order from Mrs. Garth that the property is to be sold as it stands, and not broken up piece-meal."
"Why did you describe it as the house 'round the corner?"
Mr. Walker smiled.
"That was for my son's benefit, sir," he explained. "The Elmdale cottages are clustered together on the roadside. The Grange stands above them, at one end, and a few yards up a road leading to the moor. It commands a fine view, too," he added regretfully.
"I'll take it," said the stranger.
Walker, junior, looked jubilant, but his father's years had weakened confidence in mankind. Many a good let was lost ere the agreement was signed and this one was beset by special difficulties.
"If you give me your name and address, I'll consult Messrs. Holloway & Dobb – " he began, and was probably more astonished than he would care to confess by the would-be tenant's emphatic interruption —
"Is this property to let, or is it not?"
"Yes, sir. Haven't I said so?"
"Very well! I offer you a quarter's rent, payable to you or your son when I have looked at the place. As a matter of form, I would like one of you to accompany me to Elmdale at once, because I must inquire into the fishing. I suppose you can hire a conveyance of sorts to take us there? Of course, in any event, I shall pay your fee for the journey. My name is Robert Armathwaite. I am a stranger in this part of Yorkshire, but if you, or Messrs. Holloway & Dobb, care to call at the local bank, say, in three days' time, you will be satisfied as to my financial standing. I'll sign an agreement for a yearly tenancy, terminable thereafter by three months' written notice, when I pay the first installment of the rent. As the place is furnished, you will probably stipulate for payment in advance throughout. I fancy you can draw up such an agreement in half an hour, and, if there is an inventory, it should be checked and initialed when we visit the house. Does that arrangement suit you?"
The Walkers were prosperous and pompous, but they knew when to sink their pomposity.
"Yes, sir, it can be done," agreed the elder man.
"Thank you. Which is the leading bank here?"
Walker, senior, indicated a building directly opposite.
"I'll have a word with the manager," said Mr. Armathwaite. "If I'm here in half an hour, will you have a carriage waiting?"
"A dog-cart, sir. My own. My son will attend to you."
"Excellent. Evidently, your firm understands business."
And Mr. Armathwaite went out.
The Walkers watched as he crossed the road, and entered the bank. Their side of the street being higher than the other, they could see, above the frosted lower half of the bank's window, that he approached the counter, and was ushered into the manager's private room.
"What d'ye make of it, dad?" inquired the "nut," forgetting his importance in the absorbing interest of the moment.
"Dad" tickled his bald scalp with the handle of the pen.
"Tell you what," he said solemnly. "Some houses have an attraction for queer folk. Whoever built the Grange where it is must have been daft. The people who lived there when I was a young man were a bit touched. Mr. Garth was mad, we know, an' Mrs. Wilkins was the silliest woman I ever met. Now comes this one."
"He looks all right."
"You never can tell. At
