Master Hymn-of-Praise leaned thoughtfully against the ivy-covered wall.  His eyes, roaming, searching, restless, pried all around him.

“Footprints!” he mused, “footprints which of a surety must mean that human foot hath lately trod this moss.  Footprints moreover, which lead up the steps to the door of that pavilion, wherein to my certain knowledge, no one hath had access of late.”

Something, of course, was going on at Acol Court, that strange and inexplicable something which he had tried to convey by covert suggestion to Mistress Charity’s female—­therefore inferior—­brain.

Sir Marmaduke’s temper was more sour and ill even than of yore, and there was still an unpleasant sensation in the lumbar regions of Master Busy’s spine, whenever he sat down, which recalled a somewhat vigorous outburst of his master’s ill-humor.

Mistress de Chavasse went about the house like a country wench frightened by a ghost, and Mistress Charity averred that she seldom went to bed now before midnight.  Certain it is that Master Busy himself had met the lady wandering about the house candle in hand at an hour when all respectable folk should be abed, and when she almost fell up against Hymn-of-Praise in the dark she gave a frightened scream as if she had suddenly come face to face with the devil.

Then there was her young ladyship.

She was neither ill-tempered nor yet under the ban of fear, but Master Busy vowed unto himself that she was suffering from ill-concealed melancholy, from some hidden secret or wild romance.  She seldom laughed, she had spoken with discourtesy and impatience to Squire Pyncheon, who rode over the other day on purpose to bring her a bunch of sweet marjoram which grew in great profusion in his mother’s garden:  she markedly avoided the company of her guardian, and wandered about the park alone, at all hours of the day—­a proceeding which in a young lady of her rank was quite unseemly.

All these facts neatly docketed in Master Busy’s orderly brain, disturbed him not a little.  He had not yet made up his mind as to the nature of the mystery which was surrounding the Court and its inmates, but vaguely he thought of abductions and elopements, which the presence of the richest heiress in the South of England in the house of the poorest squire in the whole country, more than foreshadowed.

This lonely, somewhat eerie corner of the park appeared to be the center around which all the mysterious happenings revolved, and Master Hymn-of-Praise had found his way hither on this fine July afternoon, because he had distinct hopes of finding out something definite, certain facts which he then could place before Squire Boatfield who was major-general of the district, and who would then, doubtless, commend him for his ability and shrewdness in forestalling what might prove to be a terrible crime.