“Well—­yes—­in some ways,” said Lydia, dubiously.  “Don’t you know who lives there?”

“Not the least.  I am a complete stranger here.  I say, do let me do that up for you?” And, letting his bicycle fall, the young man seized the easel which had still to be taken to pieces and put into its case.

Lydia shot a wavering look at him.  He ought certainly to have departed by now, and she ought to be snubbing him.  But the expression on his sunburnt face as he knelt on the grass, unscrewing her easel, seemed so little to call for snubbing that instead she gave him further information; interspersed with directions to him as to what to do and what not to do with her gear.

“It belongs to a Mr. Melrose.  Did you never hear of him?”

“Never.  Why should I?”

“Not from the Tathams?”

“No.  You see I only knew Tatham at college—­in my last year.  He was a good deal junior to me.  And I have never stayed with them at Duddon—­though they kindly asked me—­years ago.”

The girl beside him took not the smallest notice of his information.  She was busy packing up brushes and paints, and her next remark showed him subtly that she did not mean to treat him as an acquaintance of the Tathams, whom she probably knew, but was determined to keep him to his role of stranger and tourist.

“You had better look at Threlfall as you pass.  It has a splendid situation.”

“I will.  But why ought I to have heard of the gentleman?  I forget his name.”

“Mr. Melrose?  Oh, well—­he’s a legend about here.  We all talk about him.”

“What’s wrong with him?  Is he a nuisance?—­or a lunatic?”

“It depends what you have to do with him.  About here he goes by the name of the ‘Ogre.’”

“How, does he eat people up?” asked the stranger, smiling.

The girl hesitated.

“Ask one of his tenants!” she said at last.

“Oh, he’s a landlord, and a bad one?”

She nodded, a sudden sharpness in her gray eyes.

“But that’s not the common reason for the name.  It’s because he shuts himself up—­in a house full of treasures.  He’s a great collector.”

“Of works of art?  You—­don’t need to be mad to do that!  It seems to be one of the things that pays best nowadays—­with all these Americans about.  It’s a way of investing your money.  Doesn’t he show them to anybody?”

“Nobody is allowed to go near him, or his house.  He has built a high wall round his park, and dogs are let loose at night that tear you to pieces.”

“Nice man!  If it weren’t for the dogs, I should brave him.  In a small way, I’m a collector myself.”

He smiled, and Lydia understood that the personal reference was thrown out as a feeler, in case she might be willing to push the conversation further.  But she did not respond, although as he spoke she happened to notice that he wore a remarkable ring on his left hand, which seemed to illustrate his remark.  An engraved gem?—­Greek?  Her eyes were quick for such things.