I
"There's Low Fennel," said Major Dale.
We pulled up short on the brow of the hill. Before me lay a little
valley carpeted with heather, purple slopes hemming it in. A group of
four tall firs guarded the house, which was couched in the hollow of the
dip--a low, rambling building, in parts showing evidence of great age
and in other parts of the modern improver.
"That's the new wing," continued the Major, raising his stick;
"projecting out this way. It's the only addition I've made to the house,
which, as it stood, had insufficient accommodation for the servants."
"It is a quaint old place."
"It is, and I'm loath to part with it, especially as it means a big
loss."
"Ah! Have you formed any theories since wiring me?"
"None whatever. I've always been a sceptic, Addison, but if Low Fennel
is not haunted, I'm a Dutchman, by the Lord Harry!"
I laughed reassuringly, and the two of us descended the slope to the
white gate giving access to a trim gravel path flanked by standard
roses. Mrs. Dale greeted us at the door. She was, as I had heard, much
younger than the Major, and a distinctly pretty woman. In so far Dame
Rumour was confirmed; other things I had heard of her, but I was not yet
in a position to pass judgment.
She greeted me cordially enough, although women are usually natural
actresses. I thought that she did not suspect the real object of my
visit. Tea was served in a delightful little drawing-room which bore
evidence of having but recently left the hands of London decorators, but
when presently I found myself alone with my host in the Major's peculiar
sanctum, the real business afoot monopolised our conversation.
The room which Major Dale had appropriated as a study was on the ground
floor of the new wing--the wing which he himself had had built on to Low
Fennel. In regard to its outlook it was a charming apartment enough,
with roses growing right up to the open window, so that their perfume
filled the place, and beyond, a prospect of purple heather slopes and
fir-clad hills.
Sporting prints decorated the walls, and the library was entirely, or
almost entirely, made up of works on riding, hunting, shooting, racing,
and golf, with a sprinkling of Whyte-Melville and Nat Gould novels and a
Murray handbook or two. It was a most cosy room, probably because it was
so untidy, or, as Mrs. Dale phrased it, "so manny."
On a side table was ranked enough liquid refreshment to have inebriated
a regiment, and, in one corner, cigar-boxes and tobacco-tins were
stacked from the floor some two feet up against the wall. We were soon
comfortably ensconced, then, the Major on a hard leather couch, and I in
a deep saddle-bag chair.
"It's an awkward sort of thing to explain," began Dale, puffing away at
a cigar and staring through the open window; "because, if you're to do
anything, you will want full particulars."