"Tell me," I asked; "do you know why this word is written here, over the
mirror?"

"I've heard my wife say, sir, it was the motto of the Cardinnocks that
used to own this house. Ralph Cardinnock, father to the last squire,
built it. You'll see his initials up there, in the top corners of the
frame--R. C.--one letter in each corner."

As he spoke it, I knew this name--Cardinnock--for that which had been
haunting me. I seated myself at table, saying--

"They lived at Tremenhuel, I suppose. Is the family gone?--died out?"

"Why yes; and the way of it was a bit curious, too."

"You might sit down and tell me about it," I said, "while I begin my
dinner."

"There's not much to tell," he answered, taking a chair; "and I'm not
the man to tell it properly. My wife is a better hand at it, but"--
here he looked at me doubtfully--"it always makes her cry."

"Then I'd rather hear it from you. How did Tremenhuel come into the
hands of the Parkyns?--that's the present owner's name, is it not?"

The landlord nodded. "The answer to that is part of the story.
Old Parkyn, great-great-grandfather to the one that lives there now,
took Tremenhuel on lease from the last Cardinnock--Squire Philip
Cardinnock, as he was called. Squire Philip came into the property when