The Three Taps by Ronald A. Knox — Read

By next morning Bredon's spirits had risen. He had received by the early post a confidential letter from the company describing Mr. Mottram's curious offer, and suggesting (naturally) that the state of his health made suicide a plausible conjecture. The morning was fine, the car running well, the road they had selected in admirable condition. It was still before tea time when they turned off from its excellent surface onto indifferent byroads, through which they had to thread their way with difficulty. The signposts, as is the wont of English signposts, now blazoned "Chilthorpe," "Chilthorpe," "Chilthorpe," as if it were the lodestone of the neighbourhood, now passed it over in severe silence, preferring to call attention to the fact that you were within five furlongs of Little Stubley. They had fallen, besides, upon hill country, with unexpected turns and precipitous gradients; they followed with enforced windings the bleak valley of the Busk, which swirled beneath them over smooth boulders between desolate banks. It was just after they had refused the fifth invitation to Little Stubley that the County Council's arrangements played them false; there was a clear issue between two rival roads, with no trace of a signpost to direct their preference. It was here that they saw, and hailed, an old gentleman who was making casts into a promising pool about twenty yards away.

"Chilthorpe? " said the old gentleman. "All the world seems to be coming to Chilthorpe. The County Council does not appear to have allowed for the possibility of its becoming such a centre of fashion. If you are fond of scenery, you should take the road to the left; it goes over the hill. If you like your tea weak, you had better take the valley road to the right. Five o'clock is tea time at the Load of Mischief, and there is no second brew."