proximity to a bright fire, when Mrs. Wooler entered with a countenance
which betokened mystery in every feature.

"There's the estate agent, Mr. Chatfield, outside, very anxious to have a
word with you about this affair," she said. "Would you be for having him
in? He's the sort of man," she went on, sinking her tones to a whisper,
"who must know everything that's going on, and, of course, having the
position he has, he might be useful. Mr. Peter Chatfield, Mr. Greyle's
agent, and his uncle's before him--that's who he is--Peeping Peter, they
call him hereabouts, because he's fond of knowing everybody's business."

"Bring him in," said Copplestone. He was by no means averse to having a
companion, and Mrs. Wooler's graphic characterization had awakened his
curiosity. "Tell him I shall be glad to see him."

Mrs. Wooler presently ushered in a figure which Copplestone's dramatic
sense immediately seized on. He saw before him a tall, heavily-built
man, with a large, solemn, deeply-lined face, out of which looked a
pair of the smallest and slyest eyes ever seen in a human being--queer,
almost hidden eyes, set beneath thick bushy eyebrows above which rose
the dome of an unusually high forehead and a bald head. As for the rest
of him, Mr. Peter Chatfield had a snub nose, a wide slit of a mouth, and
a flabby hand; his garments were of a Quaker kind in cut and hue; he
wore old-fashioned stand-up collars and a voluminous black stock; in one
hand he carried a stout oaken staff, in the other a square-crowned
beaver hat; altogether, his mere outward appearance would have gained
notice for him anywhere, and Copplestone rejoiced in him as a character.
He rose, greeted his visitor cordially, and invited him to a seat by the
fire. The estate agent settled his heavy figure comfortably, and made a
careful inspection of the young stranger before he spoke. At last he