It's very odd the pride we take In finding out our neighbours' lives, Tho' idle words a heart may break, It's very odd the pride we take In saying this one is a rake, And that one's luck thro' evil thrives It's very odd the pride we take In finding out our neighbour's lives.

Snarling and spitting, with blazing eyes and bushy tail, the cat flew round the room rapidly, did a steeplechase over several chairs, and finally took refuge on the mantelpiece, where she stood with arched back, spitting freely, while the fox-terrier, yelping sharply, tried, unsuccessfully, to leap up.

"What a beast of a dog," said Beaumont, tranquilly; "it's Muffins, of course."

"Rather," cried a laughing voice at the door, "did you ever know Muffins when he wasn't worrying a cat or killing a rat or doing something disreputable?"

The owner of the voice was a tall young fellow of twenty years of age, with curly fair hair, a fresh complexion and merry blue eyes. He was positively bubbling over with good nature and excitement, and appeared the embodiment of robust health and animal spirits. Suddenly he caught sight of Nestley, who stood near the fireplace looking on at the scene with an amused smile.

"Awfully sorry about my dog, sir," he said, taking off his cap with a gay laugh and striding across the room to where Muffins was performing leaps worthy of an acrobat, "but he believes his mission in life is to kill cats, so at present----"

"He is performing his mission with great zeal," finished Nestley with a smile.

"By the way," interposed Beaumont, raising his voice, "I'd better introduce you two men, Mr. Richard Pemberton--Dr. Duncan Nestley."

Nestley bowed somewhat stiffly, as he thought Beaumont was taking an unwarrantable liberty in acting as he was doing, but Pemberton, with the ingenuousness of youth, caught the doctor's hand and shook it heartily.

"Glad to see you," he said looking at Nestley, "you will be a perfect God-send in this dull place."

His manner was so cordial that without being positively rude Nestley could not refuse to be gracious so seeing that he had attained his object of introducing Nestley as his friend, Mr. Beaumont sauntered out of the room with a cynical smile on his thin lips.

"You'll measure swords with me, will you?" he said to himself with a short laugh. "I wouldn't advise you to try that game, my friend."

Meanwhile Pemberton caught hold of Muffins, who was making frantic attempts to seize his feline enemy, whereupon the cat, seeing the coast clear, sprang down and dashed out of the room, but the wary Muffins, wriggling himself free, raced after her, nose on ground, with an occasional sharp yelp.

"There," said Pemberton gaily, "Muffins is provided with an amusing evening, for he'll never leave the cat till he runs her down."

"I'm sorry for the cat."

"You'll be sorry for Muffins when you see him return scratched all over," retorted the lad, whereupon they both laughed.

"Staying here long?" asked Pemberton eyeing the doctor in a friendly manner.

"Only to-night--I'm on a walking tour," replied Nestley carelessly.

"Lucky devil," said the other, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "I've got to stay here."

"Is it your home."

"In a sort of way, yes--pupil at the vicarage and all that shoot, don't you know--it's a five-act funeral of a place, but we manage to get some tra-la-la out of it."

"Who are we?" asked the doctor, mightily amused at Mr. Pemberton's colloquialisms.

"Oh! I forgot you're a stranger here--why, Reggy Blake, myself, and Priggs."

"Priggs?"

"One of the pupils," explained the communicative Richard, "a jolly ass--writes poetry--lines to Chloe, and all that sort of thing--hasn't got an idea beyond the Muses as he calls 'em--beastly old frumps--Reggy's a good sort of chappie--he's in the taproom now--come and see the fun--we often stand beer to the rustics and they sing us songs--twenty verses long and no stops."

"Do you know Beaumont well?" asked Nestley, following his youthful guide to the taproom.

"Not very, he's only been here a fortnight, but the vicar knows him; he's a native of these parts, not a bad sort of chap but awfully stand off the grass; gets up on his hind legs pretty freely. Do you know him?"

"To my cost," replied the doctor bitterly.

Pemberton stared and was about to ask the meaning of this strange remark, when a burst of laughter sounded from the taproom, so postponing his inquiry until a more favourable period, he opened the door and entered, followed by Duncan Nestley.

The doctor's eyes smarted somewhat with the pungent tobacco-smoke, but when he became more accustomed to the cloudy atmosphere, he found himself in a long low-ceilinged room round which about fifteen men were seated on benches, smoking vigorously. On a long, deal table in the centre stood a number of pewter tankards containing beer and a large jug filled with the same generous beverage stood at the end. A kerosine lamp hung from the ceiling, diffusing a dull yellow light, and the floor was covered with saw-dust, with spittoons placed about.

On the end of the table sat Reginald Blake, who was as dark as Pemberton was fair. A somewhat mournful countenance when in repose, but now sparkling with life and animation. Decidedly handsome, with an olive complexion, closely-cropped black hair and a small moustache of the same colour. As he sat there swinging his legs and showing his white teeth with every laugh, Nestley thought he was a very striking figure, although somewhat out of place in that homely room.

"Looks like an Italian," he thought, looking at the tall, lithe figure as Reginald Blake slipped off the table to greet him. "Must have been born in the South, or perhaps he's a Greek born in England, like Keats."

Dick Pemberton lost no time, but then and there introduced Nestley to his friend.

"This is Dr. Nestley, Reggy--stranger here--got the blues, so I brought him here to see the fun."

"Rather homely fun I'm afraid," said Blake holding out his hand with a frank smile. "I'm very pleased to see you, Dr. Nestley. You'll find this noisy but it's amusing."

"What would the vicar say if he knew two of his pupils were here?" asked Nestley mischievously.

Both the young men laughed heartily.

"Oh, the dear old boy wouldn't mind," said Pemberton producing a cigar case, "he trusts us, besides, we work hard all the week and only get off the chain on Saturday nights."

"Then," observed Reggy, helping himself to a cigar from his friend's case, "we study mankind----"

"As seen in the public-house," finished the doctor smiling.

"As seen in the public-house," assented Mr. Blake gravely, lighting his cigar. "Dick and myself are students of human nature."

"It's great fun," observed Dick confidentially. "If we were in Town I've no doubt we'd go to a music hall, but here we amuse ourselves with rustic simplicity."

"Said simplicity being mythical," said Blake satirically, "but the singing is amusing--I say Jarx," he added, raising his voice, "sing us that ditty of yours."

Jarx, a huge, good-tempered giant, excused himself bashfully, but on being pressed, took a long drink of beer, wiped his large mouth with his sleeve and fixing his eyes on the ceiling began to sing. First he started too low so that his voice sounded as if it came from his boots, then, apologising in a sheepish manner to the company, he began again in a high key. This being the other extreme was found equally unsatisfactory, but on making a third attempt he struck the happy medium and started off into a rustic ditty the chorus of which was solemnly sung by the company while they rocked slowly to and fro:

"There's the hog tub and the pig tub
And the tub behind the do-o-r
She's gone away with t'other chap
And she'll never come back no more."

Full chorus after long pause. "She won't--"

This song averaged about ten verses which the singer conscientiously delivered with the chorus to each verse, first as a solo, afterwards with the full strength of the company, who sang impartially in different keys, so that the result was anything but harmonious. By this simple means the song lasted about a quarter-of-an hour, much to Nestley's amusement and that of the young men, who joined in the chorus with great gusto, Dick gravely conducting with his cigar.

Mr. Jarx having finished his melody, resumed his seat, his pipe and his beer, amid great applause, and in response to a general demand, a local favourite with a shrill voice sang a ditty about "Four Irish girls who came from the Isle of Wight," which also had the additional attraction of a dance, the music of which was provided by the performer whistling, he being his own orchestra. This double display of genius was received with great rapture and, at its conclusion Nestley, turning to the young men, asked if either of them sang.

"Reggy does," said Dick promptly; "he's got a voice like a nightingale."

"Bosh!" retorted Reggy, reddening under his dark skin. "Why I never had a lesson in my life."

"No, self-taught genius," said the incorrigible Dick. "Come, old man, out with it."

Thus adjured by his friend and being pressed by the doctor, Blake consented and sang "You'll remember me," that old-fashioned song which contains such a world of pathos.

A tenor voice, pure, rich and silvery as a bell, not cultured in the least, but with rare natural power and an intensity of dramatic expression. One of those sympathetic voices which find their way straight to the heart, and as Blake sang the appealing words of the song, with their haunting, pathetic tenderness, Nestley felt strangely stirred. Even the rustics, dull as they were, fell under the spell of those resonant notes, and when the last word died away like a long-drawn sigh, sat silently pondering, not daring to break the charm with applause.

"You have a great gift," said Nestley, when the singer ceased. "A wonderful voice."

Blake flushed with pleasure at this word of praise from a stranger, and Dick delighted with the eulogy of his friend's talent chimed in delightedly.

"'Tis--isn't it jolly? and he sings comic songs--give us one old chap."

Blake would have consented, particularly as the rustics seemed anxious to hear something more suited to their comprehension than the preceding ballad, but Nestley hastily intervened.

"No, no," he said quickly, unwilling to spoil his first impression of that charming voice by hearing it lowered to the level of music hall singing, "don't do that, it will spoil everything."

The young man looked at him in surprise.

"I don't care much about them myself," said Reginald frankly, "but people down here like them better than sentimental ditties."

At this moment, Job Kossiter announced to the assembled company that it was time to close the bar, so in a few moments the room was empty of all save Nestley and his two companions. Dick asked him to have a glass of ale but he refused.

"I never drink," he said bluntly, "I'm teetotal."

They both opened their eyes at this, but were too polite to make any comments, so in order to relieve the awkwardness of the situation, Dr. Nestley began to speak.

"I suppose you've got some queer characters down here," he said, filling a fresh pipe of tobacco.

"Rather," said Dick, promptly, "old Garsworth for instance."

"Is that the squire you're talking of?" said a drawling voice at the door, and on looking towards it, the trio saw Mr. Basil Beaumont strolling into the room. Nestley grew a shade stiffer in his manner as his enemy came towards them, but Dick Pemberton turned his merry face to the new comer and nodded an answer.

"Do you know him?" he asked.

Beaumont took up his favourite position in front of the fire and smoked complacently.

"Yes. When I left this place twenty-three years ago, I heard a lot about him."

"He's a miser," said Blake meditatively.

"He was when I left, and I presume he still is," replied Beaumont, "but from all I've heard, he used to be pretty gay in his youth."

"Youth," echoed Dick scornfully, "was he ever a youth?"

"I believe he was, somewhere about the Flood. Why he must be ninety now."

"Over seventy," said Blake.

"Thank you for the correction," answered Beaumont, casting a sidelong look at him; "over seventy, yes, I should say seventy-three or four, as he was about fifty when I left; he had lived a riotous life up to the age of forty, then he suddenly took to saving money, why, nobody knows."

"Oh yes, they do," said Reginald, taking his cigar out of his mouth. "It's common gossip now."

"Tell us all about it," said Nestley, settling himself in his chair.

"It's a curious story," said Blake leisurely. "Squire Garsworth led a fast life, as Beaumont says, till he was forty, then he stumbled on some books about the transmigration of the soul."

"Pythagoras?" asked Beaumont.

"Yes, and Allan Kardec, spiritualism and re-incarnation; he learned from those books to believe that his soul would be incarnated in another body; from long study of this theory he became a monomaniac."

"In one word--mad," said Beaumont.

Nestley did not want to speak either directly or indirectly to Beaumont, but this observation appealed to his professional pride, therefore he spoke.

"Monomania does not necessarily mean madness, though it may become so; but so far as I can understand Mr. Blake, it seems to me that Squire Garsworth has made a hobby of this study, and from long concentration upon it, his hobby has become a mania; and again, the disease, as I may call it, has now assumed a more dangerous form and become monomania, which really means madness on a particular subject."

"Then it is madness," insisted Beaumont.

"In a sort of a way yes," assented Nestley; "but in a general sense I would not call him mad from simply concentrating his mental power on a single subject."

"You'll call him mad when you hear all about him," said Dick grimly; "fire away Reggy."

"Mr. Garsworth," said Blake, "accepted the doctrine of re-incarnation with certain modifications. Kardec, Pythagoras and Co. believe that a newly incarnated soul is in ignorance of its previous existences, but the squire thinks that it knows all about them, consequently he believes that when his soul--at present incarnated in the Garsworth body--leaves said body, it will become re-incarnated in another body of the same sex, and remember the time when it was the guiding intelligence of Squire Garsworth. Do I make myself clear?"

"Very clear," replied Nestley, "but if the squire believes that the soul does not lose its memory, what about his previous existences?"

"He's got a whole stock of 'em," broke in Dick quickly, "ranging from the Pharaohs down to the middle ages, but I think the Garsworth body is the first time his soul has used any fleshly envelope in our modern days."

"Curious mania," said Nestley reflectively, "if he isn't mad he's very near it."

"But what has all this incarnation humbug to do with his miserly habits," said Beaumont impatiently, "he doesn't want to pass his existences in being miserable."

"That's the very thing," explained Reginald calmly, "it appears that in some of his previous existences he suffered from poverty, so in order to arrest such a calamity, he is saving up all his money in this existence to spend during his next incarnation."

"Oh, he's quite mad," said Nestley decisively.

"But how does he propose to get hold of the money?" observed Beaumont disbelievingly; "he'll be in another body, 'and won't have any claim to the Garsworth estate."

"That's his secret," said Dick Pemberton, "nobody knows; queer yarn, isn't it?"

"Very," said Nestley, deeply interested. "I should like to study the case. Does he live by himself?"

"No, his cousin, Una Challoner, lives with him," interposed Blake hurriedly, the colour flushing in his face.

"Ah," thought Beaumont, noting this, "case of love, I see. I suppose Miss Challoner does not believe in his mad theories?" he added aloud.

"Hardly," said Dick contemptuously, "she's too sensible."

At this moment Job Kossiter entered the room, and, after slowly surveying the group, addressed himself to Reginald:

"If I may make so bold, Mr. Blake, sir," he said, in his thick voice, "would you ask the vicar to go to the old squire?"

"What's up?" asked Blake, rising.

"He's very ill, sir, as Munks says," said Kossiter, scratching his head, "and Doctor Bland, sir, he's ill, too, sir, and can't go, so as there ain't a doctor to see him, I thought the vicar----"

"Not a doctor?" interposed Beaumont, quickly. "Nonsense! This gentleman," indicating Nestley, "is a doctor, so he can go at once."

"Oh, I'll go," said Nestley, rising, rather glad of the opportunity to study the case.

"Then, sir, Munks is waiting outside with the cart," observed Kossiter, moving to the door.

"Who on earth is Munks?" asked Nestley, following the landlord.

"The squire's servant," cried Dick, "and a cross-grained old ass he is."

"I don't suppose as you need tell the vicar now, sir," said Mr. Kossiter to Reginald.

"No, of course not," replied Blake, "this gentleman will do more good; it's the doctor he needs--not the clergyman."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that, Reggy," said Dick, as they all went out. "He needs a little spiritual consolation."

"I think a strait waistcoat would be best," said Beaumont quietly, as they stood at the door, "judging from your story."

The two lads said good-night, and went homeward, while Mr. Beaumont retired into the inn, and Nestley, stepping up into the high dog-cart, drove off into the darkness of the night on his unexpected mission.