pired that the aged rector of Broadmorlands having died, the
living had been given to Ffolliott, and, hearing it, Sir Nigel was not
slow to conjecture that quite decently utilisable tools would lie ready
to his hand if circumstances pressed; this point of view, it will be
seen, being not illogical. A man who had not been a sort of hermit would
have heard enough of him to be put on his guard, and one who was a man
of the world, looking normally on existence, would have reasoned coolly,
and declined to concern himself about what was not his affair. But a
parallel might be drawn between Broadmorlands and some old lion wounded
sorely in his youth and left to drag his unhealed torment through the
years of age. On one subject he had no point of view but his own,
and could be roused to fury almost senseless by wholly inadequately
supported facts. He presented exactly the material required--and that in
mass.

About the time the flag was run up on the tower at Stornham Court a
carter, driving whistling on the road near the deserted cottage, was
hailed by a man who was walking slowly a few yards ahead of him. The
carter thought that he was a tramp, as his clothes were plainly in
bad case, which seeing, his answer was an unceremonious grunt, and it
certainly did not occur to him to touch his forehead. A minute later,
however, he "got a start," as he related afterwards. The tramp was a
gentleman whose riding costume was torn and muddied, and who looked
"gashly," though he spoke with the manner and authority which Binns,
the carter, recognised as that of one of the "gentry" addressing a
day-labourer.

"How far is it from here to Medham?" he inquired.

"Medham be about four mile, sir," was the answer. "I be carryin' these
'taters there to market."

"I want to get there. I have met with an accident. My horse took fright
at a pheasant starting up rocketting under his nose. He threw me into a
hedge and bolted. I'm badly enough bruised to want to reach a town and
see a doctor. Can you give me a lift?"

"That I will, sir, ready enough," making room on the seat beside him.
"You be bruised bad, sir," he said sympathetically, as his passenger
climbed to his place, with a twisted face and uttering blasphemies under
his breath.

"Damned badly," he answered. "No bones broken, however."

"That cut on your cheek and neck'll need plasterin', sir."

"That's a scratch. Thorn bush," curtly.

Sympathy was plainly not welcome. In fact Binns