A Clue in Wax by Fred M. White

The grand old Tudor pile known as Seagrane Holt stood on an eminence some three miles from the South Kent coast. The front of it faced the park, beyond which were the sand-dunes and, beyond them again, the famous Sandchester golf links. A year or two before, the house had been practically closed, for the late earl had found it hard enough on a sadly depleted income and heavily mortgaged lands to keep up a dozen rooms or so in a state of decent occupation, though he had steadfastly set his face against discharging any of the old servants, every one of whom had been born and bred on the property. The shooting and fishing had been let, and the long array of glass houses had fallen almost into a state of decay. There was only one head gardener, and he made the best of a bad job, seeing that at times there was not even enough coke on the premises to keep the furnaces alight. The lawns had grown long and weedy and the paths covered with green moss. All very picturesque from a short distance, but very lamentable from a close point of view. But all that was changed now. When the present holder of the title had come home, he had arrived more in a spirit of curiosity than anything else. There was none of the pride of race or sense of position in him. He had left home far too early for that, and in all his years of wandering and adventure he had hardly given the house in which he had been born a single thought.

But blood and tradition will tell and, almost before the new earl had realised what a precious heritage his was, the place had got hold of him and he had plunged enthusiastically into a scheme for bringing it back to its pristine beauty.