attention. Yet he said nothing until one day, coming across me in the library, alone, he suddenly plumped me with a question.
"Middlebrook!" said he, "the name which that poor man mentioned to you as you talked with him on the cliff was—Netherfield?"
"Netherfield," said I. "That was it—Netherfield."
"He said there were Netherfields buried hereabouts?" he asked.
"Just so—in some churchyard or other," I answered. "What of it, Mr. Cazalette?"
He helped himself to a pinch of snuff, as if to assist his thoughts.
"Well," said he presently, "and it's a queer thing that at the time of the inquest nobody ever thought of inquiring if there is such a churchyard and such graves."
"Why didn't you suggest it?" I asked.
"I'd rather find it out for myself," said he, with a knowing look. "And if you want to know, I've been trying to do so. But I've looked through every local history there is—and I think the late John Christopher Raven collected every scrap of printed stuff relating to this corner of the country that's ever left a press—and I can't find any reference to such a name."
"Parish registers?" I suggested.
"Aye, I thought of that," he said. "Some of 'em have been printed, and I've consulted those that have, without result. And, Middlebrook, I'm more than ever convinced that yon dead man knew what he was talking about, and that there's dead and gone
