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he’d been all the morning at it. “How are you going, George?” said I. “Foine, Master Giles,” he said, “I can cut that down quicker than that took to grow.” When I said, “So I should hope,” he seemed quite offended. We might pass him off as the original Old Saw himself.’
    â€˜That’s the sort of thing,’ Campion agreed. ‘But I warn you to go carefully. The old boy’s no fool. This sort of thing’s his hobby. You’d be surprised how much more the average American knows about England than we do.’
    The Reverend Swithin Cush coughed dryly. ‘There is enough here to interest a genuine antiquary for some time,’ he said. ‘How long do you expect him to stay? Is the length of his visit indefinite?’
    Mr Campion became suddenly vague. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. I’ve cracked up the place a lot, but he may give us one swift look and go home, and then
bang
goes little Albert’s fourpence an hour and old Lobbett’s sweet young life, most likely. Oh, I forgot. He’ll be here the day after tomorrow. Can you be ready in time, Biddy?’
    The girl sighed. ‘Just,’ she said. ‘It’ll be a bit of a camp at the Dower House.’
    They sat discussing their plans until after midnight, when the old rector rose stiffly out of his chair.
    â€˜Biddy, I’ll have my hurricane,’ he said. ‘You ought all to be in bed now if you’re going to move tomorrow.’
    The girl fetched the storm lantern, and they watched him disappearing into the darkness – a gaunt, lonely figure, his white hair uncovered, the lantern bobbing at his side like a will-o’-the-wisp.
    As they came back into the shadowy hall, Mr Campion grinned. ‘Dear old St Swithin,’ he said. ‘You’ve known him since you were muling and puking in Cuddy’s arms, haven’t you?’
    Biddy answered him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’s getting old, though. Alice – that’s his housekeeper, you know – says he’s gone all Russian lately. “Like a broody hen,” she said.’
    â€˜He must be hundreds of years old,’ said Albert. ‘There’s an idea in that. We might pass him off as the original St Swithin himself. Dropped in out of the rain, as it were.’
    â€˜Go to bed,’ said Biddy. ‘The machinery wants a rest.’
    Up in the chintz-hung bedroom the oak floor was sloping and the cool air was fragrant with lavender, toilet soap, and beeswax. Mr Campion did not get into the four-poster immediately, but stood for some time peering out into the darkness.
    At last he drew a small, much-battered notebook from an inside pocket and scribbled ‘St S’. For some time he stood looking at it soberly, and then deliberately added a question mark.

4 The Lord of the Manor
    â€˜ ALTHOUGH YOU’RE A foreigner, which can’t be helped, and therefore it ain’t loikely that you’ll be used to our ways, all the same we welcome you. We do ’ope you’ll live up to the old ways and do all you can for us.’
    The speaker paused and wiped round the inside of his New-gate fringe with a coloured handkerchief. ‘Now let’s sing a ’ymn,’ he added as an afterthought.
    He was standing by himself at the bottom of his cottage garden, his face turned towards the meadows which sloped down sleekly to the grey saltings. After a while he repeated his former announcement word for word, finishing with an unexpected ‘Morning, sir,’ as a thin, pale-faced young man with horn-rimmed spectacles appeared upon the other side of the hedge.
    â€˜Morning, George,’ said Mr Campion.
    George Willsmore surveyed the newcomer thoughtfully. He was a gnarled old man, brown and nobbled as a pollarded willow, with great creases bitten into his face, which was surrounded by a thick hearthbrush of a beard. As the oldest able member