“Let punch flow till that’s out.  I’m an old friend of the house.  I call here, back and forward.  I know you well, Turnbull, though you don’t recognize me.”

“You have the advantage 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-yard, when Tom Scales tottered into the kitchen, looking like death, his hair standing upright; and he sat down on an oak chair, all in a tremble, wiped his forehead with his hand, and, instead of speaking, heaved a great sigh or two.