When I reached the charming little Surrey village of Bishopstowe, I could see that it bore out Kitwater’s description of it. A prettier little place could scarcely have been discovered, with its tree-shaded high-road, its cluster of thatched cottages, its blacksmith’s shop, rustic inn with the signboard on a high post before the door, and last but not least, the quaint little church standing some hundred yards back from the main road, and approached from the lych-gate by an avenue of limes.

“Here,” I said to myself, “is a place where a man might live to be a hundred, undisturbed by the rush and bustle of the Great World.”

That was my feeling then, but since I have come to know it better, and have been permitted an opportunity of seeing for myself something of the inner life of the hamlet, I have discovered that it is only the life of a great city, on a small scale. There is the same keen competition in trade, with the same jealousies and bickerings. However, on this peaceful Sunday morning it struck me as being delightful. There was an old-world quiet about it that was vastly soothing. The rooks cawed lazily in the elms before the church as if they knew it were Sunday morning and a day of rest. A dog lay extended in the middle of the road, basking in the sunshine, a thing which he would not have dared to do on a weekday. Even the little stream that runs under the old stone bridge, which marks the centre of the village, and then winds its tortuous course round the churchyard, through the Squire’s park, and then down the valley on its way to the sea, seemed to flow somewhat more slowly than was its wont.

Feeling just in the humour for a little moralizing, I opened the lych-gate and entered the churchyard. The congregation were singing the last hymn, the Old Hundredth, if I remember rightly, and the sound of their united voices fitted perfectly into the whole scheme, giving it the one touch that was lacking. As I strolled along I glanced at the inscriptions on the various tomb-stones, and endeavoured to derive from them some notion of the lives and characters of those whose memories they perpetuated.

“Sacred to the memory of Erasmus Gunning, twenty-seven years Schoolmaster of this Parish. Born 24th of March, 1806, and rested from his labours on September the 19th, 1876.” Seating myself on the low wall that surrounded the churchyard, I looked down upon the river, and while so doing, reflected upon Erasmus Gunning. What had he been like, this knight of the ferrule, who for twenty-seven years acted as pedagogue to this tiny hamlet? What good had he done in his world? Had he realized his life’s ambition? Into many of the congregation now worshipping yonder he must have driven the three R’s, possibly with the assistance of the faithful ferrule aforesaid, yet how many of them gave a thought to his memory! In this case the assertion that he “rested from his labours” was a trifle ambiguous. Consigning poor Erasmus to oblivion, I continued my walk. Presently my eyes caught an inscription that made me halt again. It was dedicated to the “Loving Memory of William Kitwater, and Susan, his wife.” I was still looking at it, when I heard a step on the gravel-path behind me, and turning round, I found myself standing face to face with Miss Kitwater. To use the conventional phrase, church had “come out,” and the congregation was even now making its way down the broad avenue towards the high-road.

“ ‘HOW DO YOU DO, MR. FAIRFAX?’ SAID MISS KITWATER.”

“How do you do, Mr. Fairfax?” said Miss Kitwater, giving me her hand as she spoke. “It is kind indeed of you to come down. I hope you have good news for us?”

“I am inclined to consider it good news myself,” I said. “I hope you will think so too.”

She did not question me further about it then, but asking me to excuse her for a moment, stepped over the little plot of ground where her dear ones lay, and plucked some of the dead leaves from the flowers that grew upon it. To my thinking she was just what an honest English girl should be; straight-forward and gentle, looking the whole world in the face with frank and honourable simplicity. When she had finished her labour of love, which only occupied her a few moments, she suggested that we should stroll on to her house.

“My uncle will be wondering what has become of me,” she said, “and he will also be most anxious to see you.”

“He does not accompany you to church then?”

“No,” she answered. “He is so conscious of his affliction that he cannot bear it to be remarked. He usually stays at home and walks up and down a path in the garden, brooding, I am afraid, over his treatment by Mr. Hayle. It goes to my heart to see him.”

“And Mr. Codd?”

“He, poor little man, spends most of his time reading such works on Arch?ology as he can obtain. It is his one great study, and I am thankful he has such a hobby to distract his mind from his own trouble.”

“Their coming to England must have made a great change in your life,” I remarked.

“It has made a difference,” she answered. “But one should not lead one’s life exactly to please one’s self. They were in sore distress, and I am thankful that they came to me, and that I had the power to help them.”

This set me thinking. She spoke gravely, and I knew that she meant what she said. But underlying it there was a suggestion that, for some reason or another, she had not been altogether favourably impressed by her visitors. Whether I was right in my suppositions I could not tell then, but I knew that I should in all probability be permitted a better opportunity of judging later on. We crossed the little bridge, and passed along the high road for upwards of a mile, until we found ourselves standing at the entrance to one of the prettiest little country residences it has even been my lot to find. A drive, some thirty yards or so in length, led up to the house and was shaded by overhanging trees. The house itself was of two stories and was covered by creepers. The garden was scrupulously neat, and I fancied that I could detect its mistress’s hand in it. Shady walks led from it in various directions, and at the end of one of these I could discern a tall, restless figure, pacing up and down.

“There is my uncle,” said the girl, referring to the figure I have just described. “That is his sole occupation. He likes it because it is the only part of the garden in which he can move about without a guide. How empty and hard his life must seem to him, now, Mr. Fairfax?”

“It must indeed,” I replied. “To my thinking blindness is one of the worst ills that can happen to a man. It must be particularly hard to one who has led such a vigorous life as your uncle has done.”

I could almost have declared that she shuddered at my words. Did she know more about her uncle and his past life than she liked to think about? I remembered one or two expressions he had let fall in his excitement when he had been talking to me, and how I had commented upon them as being strange words to come from the lips of a missionary. I had often wondered whether the story he had told me about their life in China, and Hayle’s connection with it, had been a true one. The tenaciousness with which a Chinaman clings to the religion of his forefathers is proverbial, and I could not remember having ever heard that a Mandarin, or an official of high rank, had been converted to the Christian Faith. Even if he had, it struck me as being highly improbable that he would have been the possessor of such princely treasure, and even supposing that to be true, that he would, at his death, leave it to such a man as Kitwater. No, I fancied if we could only get at the truth of the story, we should find that it was a good deal more picturesque, not to use a harsher term, than we imagined. For a moment I had almost been tempted to believe that the stones were Hayle’s property, and that these two men were conducting their crusade with the intention of robbing him of them. Yet, on maturer reflection, this did not fit in. There was the fact that they had certainly been mutilated as they described, and also their hatred of Hayle to be weighed in one balance, while Hayle’s manifest fear of them could be set in the other.

“If I am not mistaken that is your step, Mr. Fairfax,” said the blind man, stopping suddenly in his walk, and turning his sightless face in my direction. “It’s wonderful how the loss of one’s sight sharpens one’s ears. I suppose you met Margaret on the road.”

“I met Miss Kitwater in the churchyard,” I replied.

“A very good meeting-place,” he chuckled sardonically. “It’s where most of us meet each other sooner or later. Upon my word, I think the dead are luckier than the living. In any case they are more fortunate than poor devils like Codd and myself. But I am keeping you standing, won’t you sit down somewhere and tell me your news? I have been almost counting the minutes for your arrival. I know you would not be here to-day unless you had something important to communicate to me. You have found Hayle?”

He asked the question with feverish eagerness, as if he hoped within a few hours to be clutching at the other’s throat. I could see that his niece noticed it too, and that she recoiled a little from him in consequence. I thereupon set to work and told them of all that had happened since I had last seen them, described my lucky meeting with Hayle at Charing Cross, my chase after him across London, the trick he had played me at Foxwell’s Hotel, and my consequent fruitless journey to Southampton.

“And he managed to escape you after all,” said Kitwater. “That man would outwit the Master of all Liars Himself. He is out of England by this time, and we shall lose him.”

“He has not escaped me,” I replied quietly. “I know where he is, and I have got a man on his track.”

“Then where is he?” asked Kitwater. “If you know where he is, you ought to be with him yourself instead of down here. You are paid to conduct the case. How do you know that your man may not bungle it, and that we may not lose him again?”

His tone was so rude and his manner so aggressive, that his niece was about to protest. I made a sign to her, however, not to do so.

“I don’t think you need be afraid, Mr. Kitwater,” I said more soothingly than I felt. “My man is a very clever and reliable fellow, and you may be sure that, having once set eyes on Mr. Hayle, he will not lose sight of him again. I shall leave for Paris to-morrow morning, and shall immediately let you know the result of my search. Will that suit you?”

“It will suit me when I get hold of Hayle,” he replied. “Until then I shall know no peace. Surely you must understand that?”

Then, imagining perhaps, that he had gone too far, he began to fawn upon me, and what was worse praised my methods of elucidating a mystery. I cannot say which I disliked the more. Indeed, had it not been that I had promised Miss Kitwater to take up the case, and that I did not want to disappoint her, I believe I should have abandoned it there and then, out of sheer disgust. A little later our hostess proposed that we should adjourn to the house, as it was neatly lunch-time. We did so, and I was shown to a pretty bedroom to wash my hands. It was a charming apartment, redolent of the country, smelling of lavender, and after London, as fresh as a glimpse of a new life. I looked about me, took in the cleanliness of everything, and contrasted it with my own dingy apartments at Rickford’s Hotel, where the view from the window was not of meadows and breezy uplands, but of red roofs, chimney-pots, and constantly revolving cowls. I could picture the view from this window in the early morning, with the dew upon the grass, and the blackbirds whistling in the shrubbery. I am not a vain man, I think, but at this juncture I stood before the looking-glass and surveyed myself. For the first time in my life I could have wished that I had been better-looking. At last I turned angrily away.

“What a duffer I am to be sure!” I said to myself. “If I begin to get notions like this in my head there is no knowing where I may end. As if any girl would ever think twice about me!”

Thereupon I descended to the drawing-room, which I found empty. It was a true woman’s room, daintily furnished, with little knick-knacks here and there, a work-basket put neatly away for the Sabbath, and an open piano with one of Chopin’s works upon the music-rest. Leading out of the drawing-room was a small conservatory, filled with plants. It was a pretty little place and I could not refrain from exploring it. I am passionately fond of flowers, but my life at that time was not one that permitted me much leisure to indulge in my liking. As I stood now, however, in the charming place, among the rows of neatly-arranged pots, I experienced a sort of waking dream. I seemed to see myself standing in this very conservatory, hard at work upon my flowers, a pipe in my mouth and my favourite old felt hat upon my head. Crime and criminals were alike forgotten; I no longer lived in a dingy part of the Town, and what was better than all I had----

“Do you know I feel almost inclined to offer you the proverbial penny,” said Miss Kitwater’s voice behind me, at the drawing-room door. “Is it permissible to ask what you were thinking about?”

I am not of course prepared to swear it, but I honestly believe for the first time for many years, I blushed.

“I was thinking how very pleasant a country life must be,” I said, making the first excuse that came to me. “I almost wish that I could lead one.”

“Then why don’t you? Surely it would not be so very difficult?”

“I am rather afraid it would,” I answered. “And yet I don’t know why it should be.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Fairfax would not care about it,” she continued, as we returned to the drawing-room together.

“Good gracious!” I remarked. “There is no Mrs. Fairfax. I am the most confirmed of old bachelors. I wonder you could not see that. Is not the word crustiness written plainly upon my forehead?”

“I am afraid I cannot see it,” she answered. “I am not quite certain who it was, but I fancy it was my uncle who informed me that you were married.”

“It was very kind of him,” I said. “But it certainly is not the case. I fear my wife would have rather a lonely time of it if it were. I am obliged to be away from home so much, you see, and for so long at a time.”

“Yours must be indeed a strange profession, Mr. Fairfax, if I may say so,” she continued. “Some time ago I came across an account, in a magazine, of your life, and the many famous cases in which you had taken part.”

“Ah! I remember the wretched thing,” I said. “I am sorry that you should ever have seen it.”

“And why should you be sorry?”

“Because it is a silly thing, and I have always regretted allowing the man to publish it. He certainly called upon me and asked me a lot of questions, after which he went away and wrote that article. Ever since then I have felt like a conceited ass, who tried to make himself out more clever than he really was.”

“I don’t think you would do that,” she said. “But, if you will let me say so, yours must be a very trying life, and also an extremely dangerous one. I am afraid you must look upon human nature from a very strange point of view!”

“Not more strange probably than you do,” I answered.

“But you are continually seeing the saddest side of it. To you all the miseries that a life of crime entails,............