Mrs. Baldwin always called herself an unlucky woman, and lamented¹ that she had to undergo misfortunes heavier than those of other people. But in truth she was better off than her laziness and grumbling² deserved. Her income was small but sure, and if she lived unhappily, with her second husband the fault was hers. The man grew weary of her inattention to domestic comfort, and to her constant lamentations. It said a great deal for the absent Mr. Baldwin that he had lived with this slattern for so many years. The most sensible thing he ever did in his life was when he left her.  
On losing him Mrs. Baldwin had taken up her abode³ in Cloverhead Manor⁴ House, and obtained it at a low rent. She would not have got it so cheap, but that in those days Troy was only beginning to gather round the ancient village. Mrs. Baldwin, in spite of her laziness, was clever enough to foresee that land would increase in value, and bought the acres upon which the manor stood. The former owner, the last member of a decayed family, had sold the land gladly enough, as he obtained from Mrs. Baldwin a larger price than was offered by the classic jerry-builder, who was responsible for the modern suburb. Since then the value of the land--as was anticipated by Mrs. Baldwin--had increased, and many speculators offered large sums to buy it. But Mrs. Baldwin was too lazy to make another move. She enjoyed pigging it in the large roomy house, and quite resolved not to move until the children were settled in life. She then proposed to sell the land, and use the money "to take her proper station in society," whatever that meant. And she was cunning enough to know that the land would increase still more in value. There were the makings of a business woman in Mrs. Baldwin had she not been so incorrigibly⁶ lazy.
 
"But I really can't move," sighed Mrs. Baldwin when approached on the subject by Gerty, who was businesslike and speculative⁷. "Heaven knows I can hardly get through the day's work with my bad health. Besides, there is the professor to be considered. Such a nice man. If I were only sure that Rufus was dead I might consent to take him."
 
This was sheer vanity on the part of the lazy fat woman, as the professor had no intention of asking her to become Mrs. Bocaros. He was a bachelor by nature, and passed his life in study. Holding a small post in a suburban⁸ college where he taught foreign languages, he just managed to keep his head above water. For the sake of peace, and because he hated a boarding-house, the professor wanted a home to himself. When Mrs. Baldwin came to Cloverhead she had a tiny cottage on her estate at the foot of the meadow at the back of the manor-house. It was surrounded by pines, and lying near a small stream which overflowed⁹ whenever there was rain, being therefore extremely damp. She had no idea of letting it, but on meeting Bocaros at a scholastic¹⁰ "At Home" she learned of his desire, and offered him the place. He accepted it eagerly, and for some years had been Mrs. Baldwin's tenant¹¹.
 
The professor was a quiet neighbour. He kept no servant, and did the work himself. The cottage possessed¹² but two rooms, one of which was used as a kitchen, and the other as a dining-room, a bedroom, a study, and a reception-room. This last was large and airy and damp, but the professor loved it because of the solitude¹³. He cherished a tranquil¹⁴ life above all things, and certainly found it in "The Refuge," as he called his tiny domicile. Through the pines he could see the country dotted with red brick villas¹⁵, the outposts of London, for Troy was one of the last additions to the great city, and its surroundings were almost rural. Beside the stream grew stunted¹⁶ alders¹⁷ and tall poplars. There was no fence round the place. It was clapped down on the verge¹⁸ of the meadow, and girdled with the pines. A more isolated¹⁹ hermitage it is impossible to conceive. Tracey, who sometimes came to see Bocaros, for whose learning he had a great respect, advised draining the place, but Bocaros was obstinate²⁰. "It will last my time," he said in his rather precise way; "and I may not live here for many years."
 
"Do you intend to leave then?" asked Tracey.
 
"I might. There is a chance I may inherit money, and then I would live in Switzerland."
 
"That's where the anarchists²¹ dwell," said Tracey, wondering if this queer-looking foreigner was a member of some secret society.
 
Professor Bocaros--he obtained his title from a Greek College, as he stated--was certainly odd in his appearance. He was tall and lean and lank²², apparently²³ made of nothing but bones. Rheumatism²⁴ in this damp spot would have had a fine field to rack Bocaros, but he never seemed to be ill. Always dressed in black broadcloth, rather worn, he looked like an undertaker, and moved with quite a funereal²⁵ step. His face was of the fine Greek type, but so emaciated²⁶ that it looked like a death's-head. With his hollow cheeks, his thin red lips, his high bald forehead, and the absence of beard and moustache, Bocaros was most unattractive. The most remarkable²⁷ feature of his face was his eyes. These, under shaggy black brows, seemed to blaze like lamps. However weak and ill the man looked, his blazing eyes showed that he was full of vitality²⁸. Also, his lean hands could grip firmly, and his long legs took him over the ground at a surprising rate. Yet he ate little, and appeared to be badly nourished. Tracey, to whom Bocaros was always a source of wonder and constant speculation²⁹, confided³⁰ to Gerty that he believed the professor was possessed of some restorative which served instead of food. On the whole, there was an air of mystery about the man which provoked the curiosity of the lively, inquisitive³¹ American. It would have inspired curiosity with many people also, had not Bocaros lived so retired³² a life. The Baldwin children called his house "Ogre Castle," and invented weird³³ tales of the professor eating little children.
 
"I shouldn't wonder if he was a vampire³⁴ of sorts," said Tracey. "He don't live on air, and the food in that Mother Hubbard's cupboard of his wouldn't keep a flea³⁵ in condition."
 
"I don't believe in much eating myself," Mrs. Baldwin responded, although she never gave her inside a rest, and was always-chewing like a cow. "Abstinence keeps the brain clear."
 
"And over-abstinence kills the body," retorted Tracey.
 
Whatever Bocaros may have thought of the murder, he said very little about it. He never took in a paper himself, but was accustomed to borrow the Daily Budget from Mrs. Baldwin when that lady had finished the court news, the only part of the paper she took any interest in. Usually after his return from the school where he taught, Bocaros came across the meadows by a well-defined path, and asked for the journal. This was usually between four and five o'clock, and then he would have a chat with Mrs. Baldwin. But two or three weeks after the Ajax Villa⁵ tragedy, when the professor tore along the path--he always walked as though he were hurrying for a doctor--he met Tracey half-way. The American had the newspaper in his hand.
 
"Coming for this, I guess," said Tracey, handing over the journal. "I was just bringing it to you. There's a question or two I wish to ask. You don't mind, do you?"
 
Bocaros fixed³⁶ his brilliant eyes on the other. "What is the question, my friend?" he demanded in English, which hardly bore a trace of foreign accent.
 
The American did not reply directly. "You're a clever sort of smart all-round go-ahead colleger," said Tracey, taking the thin arm of the man, an attention which Bocaros did not appreciate, "and I want to ask your opinion about this murder."
 
"I know nothing about murders, my friend. Why not go to the police?"
 
"The police!" Tracey made a gesture of disgust. "They ain't worth a cent. Why, about three weeks have gone by since that poor girl was stabbed, and they don't seem any nearer the truth than they were."
 
"We discussed this before," said Bocaros, as they approached the belt of pines, "and I told you that I could form no theory. My work lies amidst languages. I am a philologist³⁷, my friend, and no detective."
 
"I guess you'd pan out better than the rest of them if you were."
 
"You flatter me." Bocaros removed his arm, and inserted a large key into the lock of his door. "Will you come in?"
 
"You don't seem very set on chin-music, but I'll come," said Tracey, who, when bent³⁹ on obtaining anything, never rested till he achieved his purpose.
 
Bocaros gave a gentle sigh, which a more sensitive man might have taken as a sign that his company was not wanted at that precise moment. But Tracey would not go, so he had to be admitted. He entered the room, which was lined with books, and furnished otherwise in a poor manner, and threw himself into the one armchair. Then he took out a cigarette-case. "Have one," he said, extending this.
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