his finger ends he would certainly be able to throw a great deal of light on one most important matter, and he readily followed the superintendent to an ancient mansion which stood in the shadow of the old church. He was beginning to feel pleased with the results of his labours; something he now felt assured was going to come of them. And he now had a conviction that it was not in London but here in this quiet, old-world town, that he was going to find a dependable clue to the solution of the mystery of John Wraypoole's murder.
Mr. Umpeltye, discovered in his study in the midst of a heterogeneous mass of books, antiques, pictures and curiosities, was a little, apple-cheeked, bright-eyed old gentleman who wore a black velvet skull-cap from the edges of which his silvery hair protruded in a crisply-curling mass. He was very old, but very much alive, and his air grew more alert and his eyes keener as soon as Wedgwood, re-telling his story, came to the mention of John Wraypoole's name.
"Wraypoole—that's a local name," said Mr. Umpeltye. "Ashlowe people they were—farmers—none of them left. Last of them were two boys, John, Thomas. Father and mother died when they were young, and they were taken to London. Never heard of them since."
