“Don’t be in a hurry, don’t throw it away,” Beaumaroy advised.  “It’s not everybody’s choice, of course, but there are quarters—­yes, more than one quarter—­in which you might get a very good offer for this place.”  His eye caught Mary’s for a moment.  “Indeed I wish I was in a position to make you one myself.  I should like to take it as it stands—­lock, stock and barrel.  But I’ve sunk all I had in another venture—­hope it turns out a satisfactory one!  So I’m not in a position to do it.  If Mrs. Radbolt wants to sell, what would you think of it, Dr. Arkroyd, as a speculation?”

Mary shook her head, smiling, glad to be able to smile with plausible reason.  “I’m not as fond of rash speculations as you are, Mr. Beaumaroy.”

“It may be worth more than it looks,” he pursued.  “Good neighborhood, healthy air, fruitful soil, very rich soil hereabouts.”

“My dear Beaumaroy, the land about here is abominable,” Naylor expostulated.

“Perhaps generally, but some rich pockets—­one may call pockets,” corrected Beaumaroy.

“I’m not an agriculturist,” remarked weaselly Mr. Radbolt, in his oily tones.

“And then there’s a picturesque old yarn told about it—­oh, whether it’s true or not, of course I don’t know.  It’s about a certain Captain Duggle—­not the Army—­the Mercantile Marine, Mrs. Radbolt.  You know the story Dr. Arkroyd?  And you too, Mr. Naylor?  You’re the oldest inhabitant of Inkston present, sir.  Suppose you tell it to Mr. and Mrs. Radbolt?  I’m sure it will make them attach a new value to this really very attractive cottage—­with, as Dr. Arkroyd says, the additional feature of the Tower.”

“I know the story only as a friend of mine—­Mr. Penrose—­who takes great interest in local records and traditions, told it to me.  If our host desires, I shall be happy to tell it to Mrs. Radbolt.”  Mr. Naylor accompanied his words with a courtly little bow to that lady, and launched upon the legend of Captain Duggle.

Mr. Radbolt was a religious man.  At the end of the story he observed gravely, “The belief in diabolical personalities is not to be lightly dismissed, Mr. Beaumaroy.”

“I’m entirely of your opinion, Mr. Radbolt.”  This time Mary felt that her smile was not so plausible.

“There seems to have been nothing in the grave,” mused Mrs. Radbolt.

“Apparently not when Captain Duggle left it—­if he was ever in it—­at all events not when he left the house, in whatever way and by whatever agency.”

“As to the latter point, I myself incline to Penrose’s theory,” said Mr. Naylor. “Delirium tremens, you know!”

Beaumaroy puffed at his cigar.  “Still, I’ve often thought that, though it was empty then, it would have made—­supposing it really exists—­an excellent hiding-place for anybody who wanted such a thing.  Say, for a miser, or a man who had his reasons for concealing what he was worth!  I once suggested the idea to Mr. Saffron, and he was a good deal amused.  He patted me on the shoulder and laughed heartily.  He wasn’t often so much amused as that.”