ht sight of me as I caught sight of him, and he stirred, and made at
once for our door. If I had possessed the power of seeing more than the
obvious, I should have seen robbery, and murder, and the very devil
himself coming in close attendance upon him as he crossed the pavement.
But as it was, I saw nothing but a stranger, and I threw open the window
and asked the man what he might be wanting.

"Lodgings!" he answered, jerking a thickly made thumb at a paper which my
mother had that day set in the transom above the door. "Lodgings! You've
lodgings to let for a single gentleman. I'm a single gentleman, and I
want lodgings. For a month--maybe more. Money no object. Thorough
respectability--on my part. Few needs and modest requirements. Not likely
to give trouble. Open the door!"

I went into the passage and opened the door to him. He strode in without
as much as a word, and, not waiting for my invitation, lurched
heavily--he was a big, heavy-moving fellow--into the parlour, where he
set down his bag, his plaid, and his stick, and dropping into an easy
chair, gave a sort of groan as he looked at me.

"And what's your name?" he demanded, as if he had all the right in the
world to walk into folks' houses and ask his questions. "Whatever it is,
you're a likely-looking youngster!"

"My name's Hugh Moneylaws," I answered, thinking it no harm to humour
him. "If you want to know about lodgings you must wait till my mother
comes in. Just now she's away up the street--she'll be back presently."

"No hurry, my lad," he replied. "None whatever. This is a comfortable
anchorage. Quiet. Your mother'll be a widow woman, now?"

"Yes," said I shortly.

"Any more of you--brothers and sisters?" he asked. "Any--aye, of
course!--any young children in the house? Because young children is what
I cannot abide--except at a distance."

"There's nobody but me and my mother, and a servant lass," I said. "This
is a quiet enough house, if that's what you mean."

"Quiet is the word," said he. "Nice, quiet, respectable lodgings. In
this town of Berwick. For a month. If not more. As I say, a comfortable
anchorage. And time, too!--when you've seen as many queer places as I
have in my day, young fellow, you'll know that peace and quiet is meat
and drink to an ageing man."

It struck me as I looked at him that he was just the sort of man that you
would expect to hear of as having been in queer places--a sort of gnarled
and stubbly man, with a wea