this quiet, out-of-the-way place; why, we don't know; what he does here
we don't know, yet--but all the circumstances, up to now, seem to point
to secrecy, if not to absolute romance and adventure."

"Is it going, after all, to clear up the mystery of his death?" asked
Viner. "That's what concerns me--I'm afraid I'm a bit indifferent to the
rest of it. What particular romance, do you think, could be attached to
the mere fact that Ashton paid a three days' visit to Marketstoke?"

Mr. Pawle drew out a well-filled cigar-case.

"In my profession," he answered, "we hear a great deal more of romance
than most folk could imagine. Now, here's a man who returns to this
country from a long residence in Australia. The first thing he does,
after getting settled down in London, is to visit Marketstoke. Why
Marketstoke? Marketstoke is an obscure place--there are at least five or
six towns in this very county that are better known. Again, I say--why
Marketstoke? And why this, the very first place in England? For what
reason? Now, as a lawyer, a reason does suggest itself to me; I've been
thinking about it ever since that rosy-cheeked lass called at my office
this afternoon. What does the man who's been away from his native land
for the best part of his life do, as a rule, when at last he sets foot on
it again--eh?"

"I'm not greatly experienced," replied Viner, smiling at the old
solicitor's professional enthusiasm. "What does he do--usually?"

"Makes his way as soon as possible to his native place!" exclaimed Mr.
Pawle, with an expressive flourish of his cigar. "That, usually, is the
first thing he thinks of. You're not old enough to remember the