rather uncomfortably. “Then the place was sold?”

“Mrs. Millicent couldn’t get out quickly enough. The Thursbys came along in their car, offered half its value, and got it. They said they didn’t mind a murder or so if the drains were good. When they moved in they intended to stay; but they moved out in less than six months, and I’m told that Mrs. Thursby said that nothing on earth would induce her to stay. Interesting, isn’t it?”

“It’s a queer old house anyway. Not haunted, is it?”

“I never heard a whisper of that, and it’s the sort of thing you can’t keep quiet if tongues start wagging.”

“I wonder,” murmured Dawkins reflectively, “if my client knows about this.”

Mr. Jarrad’s brows went up. “In our profession it does not concern us what our clients may or may not know. Our business is to establish the physical condition of a lot of infernally uninteresting things. But, believe me, every house has its secret. We can’t report on that; we can’t even read it, because we’re not there long enough.”

Dawkins nibbled the end of his pen. “I wonder!”

“Why not? Every room I go into seems to want to say something to me, something it’s tired of keeping to itself, but I hurry through because I don’t want to be burdened. When you’ve been an inventory clerk a few years longer, it will come to you. You can’t escape it.” He paused, his gaze traveling round the oaken walls, then peered under the clock, swung out a picture, and examined the surface behind it. He touched this with a moistened finger.

“Condition in general I should say is excellent.”

It struck the younger man that for some time he had been accepting Mr. Jarrad’s conclusions without comment; so he got up and made a businesslike inspection on his own account.

“Only fair, I should say.”

Mr. Jarrad made a little noise in his throat. “There’s not much to disagree about. Shall we arbitrate?”

“Of course!”

The older man felt in his pocket, produced a coin, and tossed it.

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