But how was I to get into the house? I discarded several adventurous methods, and plumped for stern simplicity. The house had been to let⁠—presumably was still to let. I would be a prospective tenant.

I also decided on attacking the local house agents, as having fewer houses on their books.

Here, however, I reckoned without my host. A pleasant clerk produced particulars of about half a dozen desirable properties. It took all my ingenuity to find objections to them. In the end I feared I had drawn a blank.

“And you’ve really nothing else?” I asked, gazing pathetically into the clerk’s eyes. “Something right on the river, and with a fair amount of garden and a small lodge,” I added, summing up the main points of the Mill House, as I had gathered them from the papers.

“Well, of course there’s Sir Eustace Pedler’s place,” said the man doubtfully. “The Mill House, you know.”

“Not⁠—not where⁠ ⁠…” I faltered. (Really, faltering is getting to be my strong point.)