The door opened at that moment to admit a middle aged lady of comfortable proportions, and placid demeanour. This was Mrs. Bosanquet, the Fortescues' aunt. She accepted a chair, and some tea, condemned a solid-looking cake, and embarked on bread and butter.

"I have unpacked my boxes," she announced, "but I twice lost the wardrobe."

"What, have you got one of those little practical jokes?" Charles demanded.

Mrs. Bosanquet turned an amiable and inquiring countenance towards him. She was deaf. When Charles had repeated his question, she nodded. "Yes, dear, but I have stuck a piece of stamp-paper on the catch. A very quaint old house. I was talking to Mrs. Bowers, and she tells me you could lose yourself in the cellars."

"That's nothing," said Charles, getting up. "I lost myself getting from our room to my dressing-room. Of course it would simplify matters if we locked a few of the empty rooms, but I agree it would take away from the sporting element. Are you coming to the village, Peter?"

"I am," Peter replied. "I will introduce you to some very fine draught beer there."

"Lead on!" Charles said, brightening.

The lane that led to Framley was wooded, and picturesque enough to draw a grudging word of approval from Charles. Peter, negotiating a hairpin bend, said: "Seriously, Chas, the place has possibilities."

"I don't deny it. But what's all this bilge about noises and hauntings, and footsteps in the dark?"

"God knows. In the village they all but cross themselves if you mention the Priory. I daresay there are rats. Milbank said…'

"Look here, do you mean to say you knew about this haunting before you came down here? And not one word to me?"

Peter said in some surprise: "I didn't think anything of it. You aren't going to tell me you'd have refused to live in the place if you'd known?"

"Aren't I?" said Charles grimly. "If you'd left as many desirable residences and hotels at a moment's notice as I have, all because Celia "felt something queer" about them, you'd never have come near the place."