"I am
afraid it's going to be the death of him."
"Do you mean that Mr. Camber comes here every day and is always fetched
by the Chinaman?"
"Twice every day," corrected the landlady, "and his poor wife sends
here regularly."
"What a tragedy," I muttered, "and such a brilliant man."
"Ah," said she, busily removing jugs and glasses from the counter, "it
does seem a terrible thing."
"Has Mr. Camber lived for long in this neighbourhood?" I ventured to
inquire.
"It was about three years ago, sir, that he took the old Guest House at
Mid-Hatton. I remember the time well enough because of all the trouble
there was about him bringing a Chinaman down here."
"I can imagine it must have created something of a sensation," I
murmured. "Is the Guest House a large property?"
"Oh, no, sir, only ten rooms and a garden, and it had been vacant for a
long time. It belongs to what is called the Crayland Park Estate."
"Mr. Camber, I take it, is a literary man?"
"So I believe, sir."
Mrs. Wootton, having cleared the counter, glanced up at the clock and
then at me with a cheery but significant smile.
"I see that it is after time," I said, returning the smile, "but the
queer people who seem to live hereabouts interest me very much.
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