if he had known the place all his days: not seeming
to hurry himself--stepping leisurely, the servant thought--but gliding
on at such a rate, nevertheless, that he had passed his guide and was
in the kitchen of the George before the drawer had got much more than
half-way to it.

A roaring fire of dry wood, peat and coal lighted up this snug but
spacious apartment--flashing on pots and pans, and dressers high-piled
with pewter plates and dishes; and making the uncertain shadows of the
long "hanks" of onions and many a flitch and ham, depending from the
ceiling, dance on its glowing surface.

The doctor and the attorney, even Sir Geoffrey Mardykes, did not
disdain on this occasion to take chairs and smoke their pipes by the
kitchen fire, where they were in the thick of the gossip and
discussion excited by the terrible event.

The tall stranger entered uninvited.

He looked like a gaunt, athletic Spaniard of forty, burned half black
in the sun, with a bony, flattened nose. A pair of fierce black eyes
were just visible under the edge of his hat; and his mouth seemed
divided, beneath the moustache, by the deep scar of a hare-lip.

Sir Geoffrey Mardykes and the host of the George, aided by the doctor
and the attorney, were discussing and arranging, for the third or
fourth time, their theories about the death and the probable plans of
Toby Crooke, when the stranger entered.

The new-comer lifted his hat, with a sort of smile, for a moment from
his black head.

"What do you call this place, gentlemen?" asked the stranger.

"The town of Golden Friars, sir," answered the doctor politely.

"The George and Dragon, sir: Anthony Turnbull, at your service,"
answered mine host, with a solemn bow, at the same moment--so that the
two voices went together, as if the doctor and the innkeeper were
singing a catch.

"The George and the Dragon," repeated the horseman, expanding his long
hands over the fire which he had approached. "Saint George, King
George, the Dragon, the Devil: it is a very grand idol, that outside
your door, sir. You catch all sorts of worshippers--courtiers,
fanatics, scamps: all's fish, eh? Everybody welcome, provided he
drinks like one. Suppose you brew a bowl or two of punch. I'll stand
it. How many are we? _Here_--count, and let us have enough. Gentlemen,
I mean to spend the night here, and my horse is in the stable. What
holiday, fun, or fair has got so many pleasant faces together? When I
last called h