The two men approached them, on their way, no doubt, to Tower Cottage.  The old man was not above middle height, indeed, scarcely reached it; but he made the most of his inches carrying himself very upright, with an air of high dignity.  Close-cut white hair showed under an old-fashioned peaked cap; he wore a plaid shawl swathed round him, his left arm being enveloped in its folds; his right rested in the arm of his companion, who was taller than he, lean and loose-built, clad in an almost white (and very unseasonable looking) suit of some homespun material.  He wore no covering on his head, a thick crop of curly hair (of a color indistinguishable in the dim light) presumably affording such protection as he needed.  His face was turned down towards the old man, who was looking up at him and apparently talking to him, though in so low a tone that no sound reached Mary and Cynthia as they passed by.  Neither man gave any sign of noticing their presence.

“Mr. Saffron, you said?  Rather a queer name, but he looks a nice old man; patriarchal, you know.  What’s the name of the other one?”

“I did hear; somebody mentioned him at the Naylors’—­somebody who had heard something about him in France.  What was the name?  It was something queer too, I think.”

“They’ve got queer names, and they live in a queer house!” Cynthia actually gave a little laugh.  “But are you going to walk all night, Mary dear?”

“Oh, poor thing!  I forgot you!  You’re tired?  We’ll turn back.”

They retraced their steps, again passing Tower Cottage, into which its occupants must have gone, for they were no longer to be seen.

“That name’s on the tip of my tongue,” said Mary in amused vexation.  “I shall get it in a moment!”

Cynthia had relapsed into gloom.  “It doesn’t matter in the least,” she murmured.

“It’s Beaumaroy!” said Mary in triumph.

“I don’t wonder you couldn’t remember that!”

CHAPTER II

THE GENERAL REMEMBERS

Amongst other various, and no doubt useful, functions, Miss Delia Wall performed that of gossip and news agent-general to the village of Inkston.  A hard-featured, swarthy spinster of forty, with a roving, inquisitive, yet not unkindly eye, she perambulated—­or rather percycled—­the district, taking stock of every incident.  Not a cat could kitten or a dog have the mange without her privity; critics of her mental activity went near to insinuating connivance.  Naturally, therefore, she was well acquainted with the new development at Tower Cottage, although the isolated position of that dwelling made thorough observation piquantly difficult.  She laid her information before an attentive, if not very respectful, audience gathered round the tea-table at Old Place, the Naylors’ handsome house on the outskirts of Sprotsfield and on the far side of the heath from Inkston.  She was enjoying herself, although she was, as usual, a trifle distrustful of the quality of Mr. Naylor’s smile; it smacked of the satiric.  “He looks at you as if you were a specimen,” she had once been heard to complain; and, when she said “specimen,” it was obviously beetles that she had in mind.