"But what has Dr. Greefe to do with all this?"

"Ah, now you're asking. Seven years ago he settled here in the big
house up by the Park; part of the Park estate it is; and there he's
been ever since, him and his black servant."

"Black servant!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, ah, real black he is--not half-and-half like his master, but as
black as a lump o' coal, an' ugly--oh, ah, he's ugly right enough.
Goes up to the Abbey Inn of a night he do, him and that there Gipsy
Hawkins, the prettiest pair o' rascals in Upper Crossleys. Drove all
the decent folk away from the place, and Martin keeps the best beer
about here, too. If I was Martin," continued the ancient, truculently,
"I'd know what to say to them two, I would; aye, and what to do to
'em," he added with great ferocity.

"Oh," said I; for this unexpected clearing up of so many minor
mysteries had rather taken me aback. "Then Dr. Greefe is not popular?"

"Popular!" echoed the old man.

He drained his tankard and set it down on the table with a bang.

"He's been the ruin o' these parts, he has. He's worse than the
turnip-fly."

"But in what way is he responsible for these evils of which you
complain?"