ity, and offered his services--

"I know Marquise and Wimille."

"Wimille! that's it!" the stranger cried. "Right you are. That's my
direction. This is business. Yes, between Marquise and Wimille."

"Precisely," Hanger continued, as we proceeded towards the door.

I heard the major growl between his teeth in our rear--"Hanger's got him
well in tow."

I should have been glad to show the man his way, and leave him to follow
it; but Hanger, who could not resist an adventure, drew me aside and
said--"We may as well drive to Marquise as anywhere else. We shall be
back easily for the _table d'hote_." The expedition was not to my taste;
but I yielded. The stranger was glad of our company, for the reason,
which he bluntly explained, that we might be of some use to him; for the
place was not exactly at Marquise nor at Wimille. We hired a carriage,
and were soon clattering along the Calais road, muffled to our noses to
face the icy wind.

The stranger soon communicated his name, saying, "My name is Reuben
Sharp, and I don't care who knows it. Ask who Reuben Sharp is at
Maidstone: they'll tell you."

Reuben Sharp was a respectable farmer--it was not necessary for him to
tell us that. He was a man something over fifty: sharp eyes, round head,
ruddy face, short hair flaked with white, which he matted over his
forehead at intervals with a flaming bandanna; a voice built to call
across a field or two; limbs equal to any country work or sport. In
short, an individual as peculiar to England as her chalk cliffs. When he
found that we knew something--and more than something--of the
hunting-field, and that I knew his country, including Squire Lufton, to
say nothing of the Lion at Farningham (one of the sweetest and most
charming hostelries in all England), he took me to his heart, and told
me his mission and his grief.

"I don't know how I shall meet him," Reuben Sharp said; "I'm not quite
certain about myself. The man I'm going to see--this Matthew
Glendore--has done me and mine a bitter wrong. The villain brought
dishonour on my family. I knew he was in difficulties when he came into
our parts, and took two rooms in Mother Gaselee's cottage. But he was a
gentleman, every inch of it, in appearance. A d--d good shot; rode well;
and--you know what fools girls are!"

I could only listen: any question might prove a most indiscreet one.
Hanger was not quite so sensitive. "Fools!" he cried--"they are
answerable for more mischief in t