Very quiet here; not a sound penetrated. The Cathedral was a huge shadow
above its darkened lawns; not a human soul was to be seen.

The cab stopped with a jerk at Number Eight. The bell was rung by old
Fawcett, who stood on the top step looking down at Ronder and wondering
how much he dared to ask him. Ask him too much now and perhaps he would
not deal with him in the future. Moreover, although the man wore large
spectacles and was fat he was probably not a fool.... Fawcett could not
tell why he was so sure, but there was something....

Mrs. Clay was at the door, smiling and ordering a small frightened girl to
"hurry up now." Miss Ronder disappeared into the house. Ronder stood for a
moment looking about him as though he were a spy in enemy country and must
let nothing escape him.

"Whose is that big place there?" he asked Fawcett, pointing to a house
that stood by itself at the farther corner of the Precincts.

"Archdeacon Brandon's, sir."

"Oh!..." Ronder mounted the steps. "Good night," he said to Fawcett. "Mrs.
Clay, pay the cabman, please."

The Ronders had taken this house a month ago; for two months before that
it had stood desolate, wisps of paper and straw blowing about it, its "To
let" notice creaking and screaming in every wind. The Hon. Mrs.
Pentecoste, an eccentric old lady, had lived there for many years, and had
died in the middle of a game of patience; her worn and tattered furniture
had been sold at auction, and the house had remained unlet for a
considerable period because people in the town said that the ghost of Mrs.