It was Martin the landlord who answered my question.

"Things ain't right," he observed, and returned to his mouth the pipe
which he had removed for the purpose of addressing me.

"You don't know half of it," declared Hawkins. "What's _my_ job, for
instance? I ask you--what is it?"

Having thus spoken, he exchanged a significant look with the landlord
and relapsed into silence. Even my offer to replenish his tankard,
although it was accepted, did not result in any further confidences.
Prospects of crops and fruit were briefly touched upon, but that
exchange of glances between mine host and Hawkins seemed to have been
mutually understood to mean that the conversation touching Friar's
Park had proceeded far enough.

It was very mystifying, and naturally it served only to pique my
curiosity. A certain quality of loneliness which had seemed to belong
to the village, even in the brightness of the summer evening, now
asserted itself potently. Seated there in the quiet little inn parlor,
I recalled that many of the old-world cottages to right and left of
the Abbey Inn had exhibited every indication of being deserted, and
the lack of patrons instanced by the emptiness of the bar-parlor was
certainly not ascribable to the quality of the ale, which was
excellent. A sort of blight it would seem had descended upon humanity
in Upper Crossleys. It was all very curious.

Reflecting upon the matter, and sometimes interjecting a word or two
into the purely technical and very desultory conversation proceeding
between the landlord and Hawkins, I sat looking from one to the other,