Meriton, one of “the stately homes of England,” is a structure in the Palladian style, injudiciously built on the foundations of an older house dating from the fifteenth century, when sites were chosen for the sake of a handy supply of water, and with little regard to view or even to sunshine.  It occupies a cup of the hills, is backed by a dark amphitheatre of evergreen trees, and looks across a narrow valley.  The farther slope rises abruptly, and has been converted into a park, so to speak, against its will.  The stream that flows down the valley bottom has likewise been arrested by art and forced to form a lake with a swannery; but neither lake nor swannery is entirely convincing.  It was not, however, its architect’s fault that to Parson Chichester the place looked much more stately than homelike, since every window in its really noble facade was shuttered and sightless.

The great entrance porchway lay at the back of the house, in the gloom of a dripping cliff.  Here the Parson climbed down and tugged at an iron bell-handle.  The bell sounded far within the house, and was answered pretty promptly by the butler, a grizzled, ruddy-faced man, who (it was understood) had followed Sir Miles out of the Service, and carried confirmation of this in the wrinkles about his eyes—­those peculiar, unmistakable wrinkles which are only acquired by keeping look-out in many a gale of wind.

“Ah?  Good morning, Matters!” said Parson Chichester.  “Sorry to disturb you, but I’ve driven over to ask for Sir Miles’s address.”

“Certainly, sir.  That’s curious too,” added Mr. Matters half to himself.  “His address . . . yes, to be sure, sir, I’ll write it down for you.  But you must let me get you something in the way of luncheon after your drive.  Sir Miles would be annoyed if you went away without—­ though, the house being closed, you’ll pardon deficiencies.  As for the horse, sir—­”

“I hope I know how to stable him,” struck in the Parson.  “But I won’t stay—­thank you all the same.  I’ve eaten my sandwiches on the road, and couldn’t make a second meal if you paid me.  What’s curious, by the way?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“I am quoting you.  ‘Curious,’ you said.”

“Ah, to be sure, sir.  Well, less than half an hour ago there was a stranger here—­a clergyman too—­putting the very same question.”

“I met him at the lodge gates.  Oldish man, grey whiskers, mouth like a trap.”

“That’s him, sir.”

“It’s a coincidence, certainly.  The more remarkable, I guess, because Meriton nowadays is not much infested with parsons.  ’Wonder who he was, and what he wanted?”

“He would not give his name, sir.  He wanted the address.”

“You gave it to him?”

“I did not, sir.”

“Was he annoyed?”

“He was, sir; very much annoyed.  He said words to himself, which unless I’m mistaken—­”