The Halifax Comet. — 1904-02-13 (Halifax, West Yorkshire, England)

CHAPTER H. THE EMPTY ROOM.  To those living in and around Dean, the Gate House had a history; to the stranger it was merely an object of curiosity. The inhabitants of Dean knew that it got its name from the fact that a turnpike gate once stood there—a gate, too, around which legend had clustered thickly. In the legend there were highwaymen, a brutal gate-keeper, and officers of the King; and there was a murder, but as to who was the victim and who the criminal the legend was not clear. Of one thing, however, the legend was certain—ill-luck must always attend the residence which had risen on the site of the old gate house, and whoever had the temerity to live there. The stranger saw only an ugly, square stone house, set in the midst of old trees, and surrounded by a high stone wall. He wondered what manner of man he was whe chose to live in such a depressing-looking place. Stephen Quixley was eccentric, and was believed to be enormously rich. On what grounds his reputation for wealth rested it was difficult to say, but there was no doubt of his eccentricity. He visited no one, nor did any of his neighbours visit him. At six o'clock every morning the gate in the high stone wall was opened, and at sundown it was closed, after which time it was impossible to get in, as there was no bell and all communication with the house was cut off. Little was really known of Mr. Quixley. He had bought the Gate House sonic years ago, but who he was or where he had come from nobody knew. If their master had any secret to keep, the servants were either as ignorant of it as the rest of the world, or found it to their advantage not to speak of it. It was a bright morning as Ralph Cunningham walked up to the house. Frost had hardened the snow during the night, and the keen air had the effect of a tonic. On such a morning it was easy for a healthy young man to face the future and all its possible ills with equanimity. The gate was open and he went to the front door. The bell jangled for some seconds in a distant part of the house before the bolts were drawn and the door slowly opened by an old man, with sparse hair at the sides of his head and a figure bent almost double.  "Well, . jervous--2 Cunningham! Come in, sir. I'm glad to see you." Cunningham entered and waited until the door was closed again. "Thank you for your welcome' Jervons,_ but how about my uncle? Will he be pleased to see me ? " "Depends how he feels this morning," was the answer. "You mustn't take too much notice of his ways, sir; I've a notion that he's fond of you at heart. Give me your bag, sir, and come this way. You'll be wanting some breakfast." "I have had it, Cunningham said, as he followed the old man into a morning-room. "The fact is, I arrived late last night and found myself shut out. There was an accident on the line." "You've never been walking about all night?" "No. Mrs. Wingfield kindly took me in.* "Oh, ah, I know Mrs. Wingfield; a pleasant lady with a rather good-looking slip of a girl for a daughter." "Exactly, Jervons " Cunningham said, not thinking the description of Muriel at all suitable. "And how is my uncle?" "He's a wonderful man, sir, pretty near se old as I am and looks young enough to be my son at times. He was better yesterday, but when I wrote to you he was dying; we all thought AO. and I sent for a doctor. When