ntage of me, sir," said Mr. Turnbull, looking hard
on that dark and sinister countenance--which, or the like of which, he
could have sworn he had never seen before in his life. But he liked
the weight and colour of his guineas, as he dropped them into his
pocket. "I hope you will find yourself comfortable while you stay."

"You have given me a bedroom?"

"Yes, sir--the cedar chamber."

"I know it--the very thing. No--no punch for me. By and by, perhaps."

The talk went on, but the stranger had grown silent. He had seated
himself on an oak bench by the fire, towards which he extended his
feet and hands with seeming enjoyment; his cocked hat being, however,
a little over his face.

Gradually the company began to thin. Sir Geoffrey Mardykes was the
first to go; then some of the humbler townsfolk. The last bowl of
punch was on its last legs. The stranger walked into the passage and
said to the drawer:

"Fetch me a lantern. I must see my nag. Light it--hey! That will do.
No--you need not come."

The gaunt traveller took it from the man's hand and strode along the
passage to the door of the stableyard, which he opened and passed out.

Tom Scales, standing on the pavement, was looking through the stable
window at the horses when the stranger plucked his shirtsleeve. With
an inward shock the hostler found himself alone in presence of the
very person he had been thinking of.

"I say--they tell me you have something to look at in there"--he
pointed with his thumb at the old coach-house door. "Let us have a
peep."

Tom Scales happened to be at that moment in a state of mind highly
favourable to anyone in search of a submissive instrument. He was in
great perplexity, and even perturbation. He suffered the stranger to
lead him to the coach-house gate.

"You must come in and hold the lantern," said he. "I'll pay you
handsomely."

The old hostler applied his key and removed the padlock.

"What are you afraid of? Step in and throw the light on his face,"
said the stranger grimly. "Throw open the lantern: stand _there_.
Stoop over him a little--he won't bite you. Steady, or you may pass
the night with him!"

* * * * *

In the meantime the company at the George had dispersed; and, shortly
after, Anthony Turnbull--who, like a good landlord, was always last in
bed, and first up, in his house--was taking, alone, his last look
round the kitchen before making his final visit to the stable-yar