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After a few days it occurred to me to go to the office of Mr. J.M.M. Baxter–the solicitor who had sold Holmescroft to M’Leod. I explained I had some notion of buying the place. Would he act for me in the matter ?

Mr. Baxter, a large, greyish, throaty-voiced man, showed no enthusiasm. “I sold it to Mr. M’Leod,” he said. “It ‘ud scarcely do for me to start on the running-down tack now. But I can recommend–“

“I know he’s asking an awful price,” I interrupted, “and atop of it he wants an extra thousand for what he calls your clean bill of health.”

Mr. Baxter sat up in his chair. I had all his attention.

“Your guarantee with the house. Don’t you remember it?”

“Yes, yes. That no death had taken place in the house since it was built: I remember perfectly.”

He did not gulp as untrained men do when they lie, but his jaws moved stickily, and his eyes, turning towards the deed boxes on the wall, dulled. I counted seconds, one, two, three–one, two, three up to ten. A man, I knew, can live through ages of mental depression in that time.

“I remember perfectly.” His mouth opened a little as though it had tasted old bitterness.

“Of course that sort of thing doesn’t appeal to me.” I went on. “I don’t expect to buy a house free from death.”

“Certainly not. No one does. But it was Mr. M’Leod’s fancy–his wife’s rather, I believe; and since we could meet it–it was my duty to my clients at whatever cost to my own feelings–to make him pay.”

“That’s really why I came to you. I understood from him you knew the place well.”

“Oh, yes. Always did. It originally belonged to some connections of mine.”

“The Misses Moultrie, I suppose. How interesting! They must have loved the place before the country round about was built up.”

“They were very fond of it indeed.”

“I don’t wonder. So restful and sunny. I don’t see how they could have brought themselves to part with it.”

Now it is one of the most constant peculiarities of the English that in polite conversation–and I had striven to be polite–no one ever does or sells anything for mere money’s sake.

“Miss Agnes–the youngest–fell ill” (he spaced his words a little), “and, as they were very much attached to each other, that broke up the home.”

“Naturally. I fancied it must have been something of that kind. One doesn’t associate the Staffordshire Moultries” (my Demon of Irresponsibility at that instant created ’em), “with–with being hard up.”

“I don’t know whether we’re related to them,” he answered importantly. “We may be, for our branch of the family comes from the Midlands.”

I give this talk at length, because I am so proud of my first attempt at detective work. When I left him, twenty minutes later, with instructions to move against the owner of Holmescroft, with a view to purchase, I was more bewildered than any Doctor Watson at the opening of a story.

Why should a middle-aged solicitor turn plovers’ egg colour and drop his jaw when reminded of so innocent and festal a matter as that no death had ever occurred in a house that he had sold? If I knew my English vocabulary at all, the tone in which he said the youngest sister “fell ill” meant that she had gone out of her mind. That might explain his change of countenance, and it was just possible that her demented influence still hung about Holmescroft; but the rest was beyond me.

I was relieved when I reached M’Leod’s City office, and could tell him what I had done–not what I thought.

M’Leod was quite willing to enter into the game of the pretended purchase, but did not see how it would help if I knew Baxter.

“He’s the only living soul I can get at who was connected with Holmescroft,” I said.

“Ah! Living soul is good,” said M’Leod. “At any rate our little girl will be pleased that you are still interested in us. Won’t you come down some day this week?”