fellows for a month. I knew all about them, at least one of them, the one who came to me—James McAuley. He's perfectly all right. Said he wanted to paint with his friend. I know his father, big doctor in London. Boy was at Cambridge. They 're as right as rain, Postlethwaite. If they 've hurt your property we can get compensation. The month 's not up by a long while, and hang it, I did get you prepayment!"
"We can't get compensation?" huffed Mr. Postlethwaite. "I shall!"
"Yes, you will, of course," corrected Mr. Kirby quietly. "Do make some sort of connected story for me. When did you go to Greystones?"
"Just come from it," said the aged Postlethwaite glaringly. "All smashed! Broken! Destroyed!"
"Did you find any letter, or note, or anything?"
"Nothing. Told you. Quite empty. And a dirty piece of rope chucked up into the rafters as well," he added, as though that were the worst and last of his grievances. "Where are those young scoundrels?"
"My dear Mr. Postlethwaite," said the lawyer suavely, "it isn't actionable here
