Yet the knowledge which Link had gained relative to Mrs. Vrain's remaining at Berwin Manor to keep Christmas seemed to contradict the fact; and he could by no means reconcile her absence with the presence on the fence of the fragment of gauze; still less with the supposition that she must have climbed over a tolerably difficult obstacle to enter the yard, let alone the necessity—by no means easy to a woman—of descending into the disused cellar by means of a shaky and fragile ladder.
"After all," thought Lucian, when he was seated that same evening at his dinner, "I am no more certain that the veil is the property of Mrs. Vrain than I am that she was the woman whose shadow I saw on the blind.
Whosoever it was that gained entrance by passing over fence and through cellar, must have come across the yard belonging to the house facing the other road.
Therefore, the person must be known to the owner of that house, and I must discover who the owner is.
Miss Greeb will know."
Lucian made this last remark with the greatest confidence, as he was satisfied, from a long acquaintance with his landlady, that there was very little concerning her own neighbourhood of which she was ignorant.
The result verified his belief, for when Miss Greeb came in to clear the table—a duty she invariably undertook so as to have a chance of conversing with her admired lodger—she was able to afford him the fullest information on the subject.
The position of the house in question; the name of its owner; the character of its tenants; she was thoroughly well posted up in every item, and willingly imparted her knowledge with much detail and comment.
"No. 9 Jersey Street," said she, unhesitatingly; "that is the number of the house at the back of the haunted mansion, Mr. Denzil.
I know it as well as I know my ten fingers."
"To whom does it belong?" asked Lucian.
"Mr. Peacock; he owns most of the property round about here, having bought up the land when the place was first built on.
He's seventy years of age, you know, Mr. Denzil," continued Miss Greeb conversationally, "and rich!—Lord! I don't know how rich he is!
Building houses cheap and letting them dear; he has made more out of that than in sanding his sugar and chicorying his coffee.
He——"
"What is the name of the tenant?" interrupted Lucian, cutting short this rapid sketch of Peacock's life.
"Mrs. Bensusan, one of the largest women hereabouts."
"I don't quite understand."
"Fat, Mr. Denzil.
She turns the scale at eighteen stone, and has pretty well broke every weighing machine in the place."
"What reputation has she, Miss Greeb?"
"Oh, pretty good," said the little woman, shrugging her shoulders, "though they do say she overcharges and underfeeds her lodgers."
"She keeps a boarding-house, then?"
"Well, she lets rooms," explained Miss Greeb in a very definite manner, "and those who live in them supply their own food, and pay for service and kitchen fire."
"Who is with her now?"
"No one," replied the landlady promptly. "She's had her bill up these three months.
Her last lodger left about Christmas."
"What is his name—or her name?"
"Oh, it was a 'he,'" said Miss Greeb, smiling.
"Mrs. Bensusan prefers gentlemen, who are out of doors all day, to ladies muddling and meddling all day about the house.
I must say I do, too, Mr. Denzil," ended the lady, with a fascinating glance.
"What is his name, Miss Greeb?" repeated Lucian, quite impervious to the hint.
"Let me see," said Miss Greeb, discomfited at the result of her failure. "A queer name that had to do with payments. Bill as the short for William. No, it wasn't that, although it does suggest an account. Quarterday?
No.
But it had something to do with quarter-days. Rent!" finished Miss Greeb triumphantly.
"Rent, with a 'W' before it."
"W-r-e-n-t!" spelled Lucian.
"Yes.
Wrent!
Mr. Wrent. A strange name, Mr. Denzil—a kind of charade, as I may say.
He was with Mrs. Bensusan six months; came to her house about the time Mr. Berwin hired No. 13."
"Very strange!" assented Lucian, to stop further comment. "What kind of a man was this Mr. Wrent?"
"I don't know.
I never heard much about him," replied Miss Greeb regretfully. "May I ask why you want to know all this, Mr. Denzil?"
Lucian hesitated, as he rather dreaded the chattering tongue of his landlady, and did not wish his connection with the Vrain case to become public property in Geneva Square.
Still, Miss Greeb was a valuable ally, if only for her wide acquaintance with the neighbourhood, its inhabitants, and their doings.
Therefore, after a moment's reflection, he resolved to secure Miss Greeb as a coadjutor, and risk her excessive garrulity. "Can you keep a secret, Miss Greeb?" he asked, with impressive solemnity.
Struck by his serious air, and at once on fire with curiosity to learn its reason, Miss Greeb loudly protested that she should sooner die than breathe a word of what her lodger was about to divulge.
She hinted, with many a mysterious look and nod, that secrets endangering the domestic happiness of every family in the square were known to her, and appealed to the fact that such families still lived in harmony as a proof that she was to be trusted.
"Wild horses wouldn't drag out of me what I know!" cried Miss Greeb earnestly. "You can confide in me as you would in a"—she was about to say mother, but recollecting her juvenile looks, substituted the word "sister."