"Vincent," said the old Mr. Arthur one evening when we were playing chess, (for he had soon abandoned the formality of calling me 'Mr. Quiller') "Have you ever been so caught up with an object, so yearning for it , so completely fascinated with a thing that you would do anything, anything in heaven or hell to obtain it?" I stared at the old man's face as he lounged in his chair, with his back to the large marble fireplace in his drawing room. "No, sir." I answered slowly, "No sir, I have not." The older gentleman only grunted in response to this. His eyes were wandering and I could see his mind was elsewhere occupied. I was slightly alarmed at this behavior, it was uncharacteristic of him to acting in such a manner. The event burdened my thoughts for the rest of the evening. The next morning, when managing to snatch a few moments of pleasantries with Patricia, she confessed a grand, romantic notion."Now, I know you're going to laugh, Mr. Vincent, but I really do believe there's some sort of mystery afoot here. This house is too grand and somber not to have one, don't you think?" I told her I thought the notion was quite silly, and that surely there must be better employments for her idle thoughts. She said she found my notions equally ridiculous, and then we took a turn in the garden and quite forgot about the matter. The pesky idea, however, could not be erased from my head, and the thought kept resurfacing at even the slightest hint of inconsistency or intrigue. As I had ample chance to observe old Mr. Loffemoore, I noticed that he wrote a great deal of letters to a particular Gregory Foster. What the letters contained, however, I hadn't the slightest idea. What struck me most was that this frequent correspondence with this Mr. Foster was the only one he had. I dismissed the matter at once, many men had a steady correspondence with old friends or business associates, and I scolded myself for being so easily swayed by Petunia's foolish ideas. In my leisurely hours, when not in the library, I was often out in the garden, a beautiful and well kept place, surrounded by high walls. During several of my frequent meanderings, I noticed a washerwoman, a comely matron dressed in humble attire, who would shuffle her way down one of the gravel paths and peer into the windows. I noted this strange and rather ill-bred behavior, but kept silent. I rarely wish to confront anyone, and this washerwoman was no exception. On one occasion, however, I dared to speak. I had been walking through the old rose garden, and pondering how it might appear in the spring time. I was thus interrupted in my musings by the sound of scuffling. I turned back towards the house, and found the washerwoman on one of the larger windowsills, attempting to enter the house! I called out to her in a loud voice, and she whirled towards me. I was frozen, absolutely stunned by the woman's incredibly beautiful face. She was not young, to be sure, but she was astoundingly beautiful. She scrambled down from the window and fled from me in an instant. I stood, rooted to the spot, absolutely transfixed and intensely puzzled. Even after I retired to the house, the strange behavior of the beautiful woman puzzled me. She was certainly not a washerwoman by trade, I could tell from her delicate hands and lovely face. She must have then had some reason for masquerading as one. Ponder and turn it every way I could, I made no sense of it through the course of the day. I was glad when the gentleman called for me, if it would do nothing but ease my mind on the peculiar event. The old Mr. Arthur, however, was in a sharp and satirical mood, which quickly convinced me that I had much better keep quiet during this particular visit than mention the strange woman. It was a rather chilly evening, now that was early September, and the older gentleman began to tremble in his wraps. I meekly suggested that the fireplace be lit, I was quite considered for his health, as he was positively shivering. To this he told me off with a sharper response that he had ever given me. I dared to ask him to reconsider, and he nearly flew into a rage. I stumbled through an apology and stayed almost completely silent for the entire evening. I was puzzled; why, if he refused so vehemently to have the grand fireplace lit, did he always sit with his back directly to it, almost completely obscuring it from view with his large over-stuffed armchair? I retired to my bed, grateful to drift off into dreams, where all inconsistencies where of my own making and much less troubling.