to know would come in time. The next move, of course, was to visit the
agent of the property.

A smart, dapper little man, looking absurdly out of place in an
exceedingly spacious office, was quite ready to give every information.
It was certainly true that 218, Brunswick Square, was to be let at an
exceedingly low rent on a repairing lease, and that the owner had a lot
more property in Brighton to be let on the same terms. The lady was
exceedingly rich and eccentric; indeed, by asking such low rents she was
doing her best to seriously diminish her income.

"Do you know the lady at all?" Bell asked.

"Not personally," the agent admitted. "So far as I can tell, the property
came into the present owner's hands some years ago by inheritance. The
property also included a very old house, called Longdean Grange, not far
from Rottingdean, where the lady, Mrs. Henson, lives at present. Nobody
ever goes there, nobody ever visits there, and to keep the place free
from prying visitors a large number of savage dogs are allowed to prowl
about the grounds."

Bell listened eagerly. Watching him, David could see that his eyes
glinted like points of steel. There was something subtle behind all this
common-place that touched the imagination of the novelist.

"Has 218 been let during the occupation of the present owner?"
Bell asked.

"No," the agent replied. "But the present owner--as heir to the
property--I am told, was interested in both 218 and 219, which used to be