Williamson is a white-bearded man, and he lives alone
with a small staff of servants at the Hall. There is some rumour
that he is or has been a clergyman; but one or two incidents of
his short residence at the Hall struck me as peculiarly
unecclesiastical. I have already made some inquiries at a
clerical agency, and they tell me that there WAS a man of that
name in orders whose career has been a singularly dark one.
The landlord further informed me that there are usually week-end
visitors -- `a warm lot, sir' -- at the Hall, and especially one
gentleman with a red moustache, Mr. Woodley by name, who was
always there. We had got as far as this when who should walk in
but the gentleman himself, who had been drinking his beer in the
tap-room and had heard the whole conversation. Who was I?
What did I want? What did I mean by asking questions? He had
a fine flow of language, and his adjectives were very vigorous.
He ended a string of abuse by a vicious back-hander which I failed
to entirely avoid. The next few minutes were delicious. It was
a straight left against a slogging ruffian. I emerged as you
see me.
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