“A dozen years, I should say,” the vicar replied.

“And the last tenant—­did you know him—­or her?” Oleron was conscious of a tingling of his nerves as he offered the vicar the alternative of sex.

“Him,” said the vicar.  “A man.  If I remember rightly, his name was Madley; an artist.  He was a great recluse; seldom went out of the place, and—­” the vicar hesitated and then broke into a little gush of candour “—­and since you appear to have come for this information, and since it is better that the truth should be told than that garbled versions should get about, I don’t mind saying that this man Madley died there, under somewhat unusual circumstances.  It was ascertained at the post-mortem that there was not a particle of food in his stomach, although he was found to be not without money.  And his frame was simply worn out.  Suicide was spoken of, but you’ll agree with me that deliberate starvation is, to say the least, an uncommon form of suicide.  An open verdict was returned.”

“Ah!” said Oleron....  “Does there happen to be any comprehensive history of this parish?”

“No; partial ones only.  I myself am not guiltless of having made a number of notes on its purely ecclesiastical history, its registers and so forth, which I shall be happy to show you if you would care to see them; but it is a large parish, I have only one curate, and my leisure, as you will readily understand ...”

The extent of the parish and the scantiness of the vicar’s leisure occupied the remainder of the interview, and Oleron thanked the vicar, took his leave, and walked slowly home.

He walked slowly for a reason, twice turning away from the house within a stone’s-throw of the gate and taking another turn of twenty minutes or so.  He had a very ticklish piece of work now before him; it required the greatest mental concentration; it was nothing less than to bring his mind, if he might, into such a state of unpreoccupation and receptivity that he should see the place as he had seen it on that morning when, his removal accomplished, he had sat down to begin the sixteenth chapter of the first Romilly.

For, could he recapture that first impression, he now hoped for far more from it.  Formerly, he had carried no end of mental lumber.  Before the influence of the place had been able to find him out at all, it had had the inertia of those dreary chapters to overcome.  No results had shown.  The process had been one of slow saturation, charging, filling up to a brim.  But now he was light, unburdened, rid at last both of that Romilly and of her prototype.  Now for the new unknown, coy, jealous, bewitching, Beckoning Fair!...

At half-past two of the afternoon he put his key into the Yale lock, entered, and closed the door behind him....