But the Sergeant, although slow-witted as well as ugly, had had his experiences; he had carried weights both in the army and in other institutions which are officially described as His Majesty’s, and had seen other men carry them too.  From the set of Beaumaroy’s figure as he arrived home on at least two occasions with the brown bag, and from the way in which he handled it, the Sergeant confidently drew the conclusion that it was of a considerable, almost a grievous, weight.  What was the heavy thing in it?  What became of that thing after it was taken into the Tower?  To whose use or profit did it, or was it, to inure?  Certainly it was plain, even to the meanest capacity, that the contents of the bag had a value in the eyes of the two men who went to London for them and who shepherded them from London to the custody of the Tower.

These thoughts filled and racked his brain as he sat drinking rum and water in the bar of the Green Man on Christmas evening; a solitary man, mixing little with the people of the village, he sat apart at a small table in the corner, musing within himself, yet idly watching the company—­villagers, a few friends from London and elsewhere, some soldiers and their ladies.  Besides these, a tall slim man stood leaning against the bar, at the far end of it, talking to Bill Smithers, the landlord, and sipping whisky-and-soda between pulls at his cigar.  He wore a neat dark overcoat, brown shoes, and a bowler hat rather on one side; his appearance was, in fact, genteel, though his air was a trifle raffish.  In age he seemed about forty.  The Sergeant had never seen him before, and therefore favored him with a glance of special attention.

Oddly enough, the gentlemanly stranger seemed to reciprocate the Sergeant’s interest; he gave him quite a long glance.  Then he finished his whisky-and-soda, spoke a word to Bill Smithers, and lounged across the room to where the Sergeant sat.

“It’s poor work drinking alone on Christmas night,” he observed.  “May I join you?  I’ve ordered a little something, and, well, we needn’t bother about offering a gentleman a glass tonight.”

The Sergeant eyed him with apparent disfavor—­as, indeed, he did everybody who approached him—­but a nod of his head accorded the desired permission.  Smithers came across with a bottle of brandy and glasses.  “Good stuff!” said the stranger, as he sat down, filled the glasses, and drank his off.  “The best thing to top up with, believe me!”

The Sergeant, in turn, drained his glass, maintaining, however, his aloofness of demeanor.  “What’s up?” he growled.

“What’s in the brown bag?” asked the stranger lightly and urbanely.

The Sergeant did not start; he was too old a hand for that; but his small gimlet eyes searched his new acquaintance’s face very keenly.  “You know a lot!”