But professionally (the distinction must not be pushed too far, she was not built in watertight compartments) Tower Cottage remained obstinately in the center of her thoughts; and, connected with it, there arose a puzzle over Dr. Irechester’s demeanor.  She had taken advantage of Beaumaroy’s permission, though rather doubtful whether she was doing right, for she was still inexperienced in niceties of etiquette, and sent on the letter, with a frank note explaining her own feelings and the reason which had caused her to pay her visit to Mr. Saffron.  But though Irechester was quite friendly when they met at Old Place before dinner, and talked freely to her during a rather prolonged period of waiting (Captain Alec and Cynthia, Gertie and two subalterns were very late, having apparently forgotten dinner in more refined delights), he made no reference to the letters, nor to Tower Cottage or its inmates.  Mary herself was too shy to break the ice, but wondered at his silence, and the more because the matter evidently had not gone out of his mind.  For after dinner, when the port had gone round once and the proper healths been honored, he said across the table to Mr. Penrose: 

“We were talking the other day of the Tower, on the heath, you know, by old Saffron’s cottage, and none of us knew its history.  You know all about Inkston from time out o’ mind.  Have you got any story about it?”

Mr. Penrose practiced as a solicitor in London, but lived in a little old house near the Irechesters’ in the village street, and devoted his leisure to the antiquities and topography of the neighborhood; his lore was plentiful and curious, if not important.  He was a small, neat old fellow, with white whiskers of the antique cut, a thin voice, and a dry cackling laugh.

“There was a story about it, and one quite fit for Christmas evening, if you’re in the mood to hear it.”

The thin voice was penetrating.  At the promise of a story silence fell on the company, and Mr. Penrose told his tale, vouching as his authority an erstwhile “oldest inhabitant,” now gathered to his fathers; for the tale dated back some eighty years, to the date of the ancient’s early manhood.

A seafaring man had suddenly appeared, out of space, as it were, at Inkston, and taken the cottage.  He carried with him a strong smell of rum and tobacco, and gave it to be understood that his name was Captain Duggle.  He was no beauty, and his behavior was worse than his looks.  To that quiet village, in those quiet strait-laced times, he was a horror and a portent.  He not only drank prodigiously—­that, being in character and also a source of local profit, might have passed with mild censure—­but he swore and blasphemed horribly, spurning the parson, mocking at Revelation, even at the Deity Himself.  The Devil was his friend, he said.  A most terrible fellow, this Captain Duggle.  Inkston’s hair stood on end, and no wonder!

“No doubt they shivered with delight over it all,” commented Mr. Naylor.