“I wonder if Jabez is as shadowy as ever?” thought Mr. Elster, as he walked on.

One more feature, and that is the last you shall hear of until Hartledon is reached.  Close to the clerk’s garden, on a piece of waste land, stood a small wooden building, no better than a shed.

It had once been a stable, but so long as Percival Elster could remember, it was nothing but a receptacle for schoolboys playing at hide-and-seek.  Many a time had he hidden there.  Something different in this shed now caught his eye; the former doorway had been boarded up, and a long iron tube, like a thin chimney, ascended from its roof.

“Who on earth has been adding that to it?” exclaimed Mr. Elster.

A little way onward, and he came to the lodge-gates of Hartledon.  The house was on the same side as the Rectory, its park stretching eastward, its grounds, far more beautiful and extensive than those of the Rectory, descending to the river.  As he went in at the smaller side-gate, he turned his gaze on the familiar road he had quitted, and most distinctly saw a wreath of smoke ascending from the pipe above the shed.  Could it be a chimney, after all?

The woman of the lodge, hearing footsteps, came to her door with hasty words.

“Now then!  What makes you so late this morning?  Didn’t I—­” And there she stopped in horror; transfixed; for she was face to face with Mr. Elster.

“Law, sir! You! Mercy be good to us!”

He laughed.  In her consternation she could only suppose he had dropped from the clouds.  Giving her a pleasant greeting, he drew her attention to the appearance that was puzzling him.  The woman came out and looked at it.

“Is it a chimney, Mrs. Capper?”

“Well, yes, sir, it be.  Pike have put it in.  He come here, nobody knew how or when, he put himself into the old shed, and has never left it again.”

“Who is ’Pike’?”

“It’s hard to say, sir; a many would give a deal to know.  He lay in the shed a bit at first, as it were, all open.  Then he boarded up that front doorway, opened a door at the back, cut out a square hole for a window, and stuck that chimney in the roof.  And there he’s lived ever since, and nobody interferes with him.  His name’s Pike, and that’s all that’s known.  I should think my lord will see to it when he comes.”

“Does he work for his living?”

“Never does a stroke o’ work for nobody, sir.  And how he lives is just one o’ them mysteries that can’t be dived into.  He’s a poacher, a snarer, and a robber of the fishponds—­any one of ’em when he gets the chance; leastways it’s said so; and he looks just like a wild man o’ the woods; wilder than any Robison Crusoe!  And he—­but you might not like me to mention that, sir.”

“Mention anything,” replied Mr. Elster.  “Go on.”

“Well, sir, it’s said by some that his was the shot that killed Mr. George,” she returned, dropping her voice; and Percival Elster started.