“There was a letter that came for Stephen before dinner to-day; he got it when he came in, but it was lying here for an hour first.  Perhaps it was that as took him to Malsham; and yet that’s strange, for it was a London letter—­and it don’t seem likely as any one could be coming down from London to meet Steph at Malsham.  I can’t make top nor tail of it.”

Mrs. Tadman laid down her knitting, and gave the fire a vigorous stir.  She wanted some vent for her vexation; for it was really too provoking to see Ellen Whitelaw sitting staring out of the window like a lifeless statue, and not taking the faintest interest in the mystery of her husband’s conduct.  She stirred the fire, and then busied herself with the tea-table, giving a touch here and there where no re-arrangement was wanted, for the sake of doing something.

The room looked comfortable enough in the cold light of the spring afternoon.  It was the most occupied room in the house, and the least gloomy.  The glow of a good fire brightened the scanty shabby furniture a little, and the table, with its white cloth, homely flowered cups and saucers, bright metal teapot, and substantial fare in the way of ham and home-made bread, had a pleasant look enough in the eyes of any one coming in from a journey through the chill March atmosphere.  Mr. Whitelaw’s notion of tea was a solid meal, which left him independent of the chances of supper, and yet open to do something in that way; in case any light kickshaw, such as liver and bacon, a boiled sheep’s head, or a beef-steak pie, should present itself to his notice.

Ellen roused herself from her long reverie at last.  There was the sound of wheels upon the cart-track across the wide open field in front of the house.

“Here comes Mr. Whitelaw,” she said, looking out into the gathering dusk; “and there’s some one with him.”

“Some one with him!” cried Mrs. Tadman.  “Why, my goodness, who can that be?”

She ran to the window and peered eagerly out.  The cart had driven up to the door by this time, and Mr. Whitelaw and his companion were alighting.  The stranger was rather a handsome man, Mrs. Tadman saw at the first glance, tall and broad-shouldered, clad in dark-gray trousers, a short pilot-coat, and a wide-awake hat; but with a certain style even in this rough apparel which was not the style of agricultural Malsham, an unmistakable air that belongs to a dweller in great cities.

“I never set eyes upon him before,” exclaimed Mrs. Tadman, aghast with wonder; for visitors at Wyncomb were of the rarest, and an unknown visitor above all things marvellous.

Mr. Whitelaw opened the house-door, which opened straight into a little lobby between the two parlours.  There was a larger door and a spacious stone entrance-hall at one end of the house; but that door had not been opened within the memory of man, and the hall was only used as a storehouse now-a-days.  There was some little mumbling talk in the lobby before the two men came in, and then Mrs. Tadman’s curiosity was relieved by a closer view of the stranger.