place; not a sign of life was to be seen around it, not a face at its windows. But from one of the fantastically-shaped chimneys a thin wisp of blue smoke curled into the heavy October air.
As he stood there watching, Wedgwood summarized what he knew of the family that inhabited this ancient house. Not much—and that only gained by hearsay; the gossip of the previous evening. Mortover—that was the name. Had been there for hundreds of years. Owned land that had been unproductive. Poor—miserably poor, if Appleyard and his companion were to be credited. The present owner was Philip, who was to be rich because coal had been discovered under his dank acres. And he still—according to Appleyard—was a young man of no great account, and likely to be no more than a figure-head on the directorate of the colliery. That was about all.
But . . . what about this girl in London; this Avice Mortover in whom John Wraypoole had taken some interest and had made some discovery, and who had come to him, Wedgwood, with her story? In what relation did she stand to this Mortover of Mortover Grange? What had John Wraypoole discovered about her and about that relationship—if any—when he was down in these parts? And what was
