Mr. Urquhart’s study was a small, dingy room, the walls of which were entirely covered by eighteenth-century prints. The Squire sat in a low, leather chair, with the Evershot chronicle on his knees; and as Wolf settled himself opposite him in a similar chair, he began to feel that, after all, he was probably exaggerating the peculiarities of King’s Barton Manor.

“It’s my nervous imagination, I expect,” he said to himself. “Urquhart’s no doubt like hundreds of other eccentric men of leisure. And as for the gardener’s chatter⁠—I suppose servants are always glad to grumble to a stranger.”

“Didn’t my predecessor live in Monk’s house?” he found himself saying.