Seated in the parlour of the inn, I asked to see the landlady.  The sight of the idiot caused as little emotion in her, as it had produced in her husband.  I ordered dinner for him.  Whilst it was preparing, I engaged the landlord in conversation at the door.  I did not wish to speak before young Harrington.  I dared not leave him.  I enquired, first, if the face of the idiot were familiar to him.  I received for answer, that the man had never seen him in his life before, nor had his wife.

“Do you know the name of Harrington?” said I.

“No—­never heard on it,” was the reply.

“Fitzjones, perhaps?”

“Many Joneses hereabouts, sir,” said the landlord, “but none of that there Christian name.”

The excitement of the idiot did not abate.  He would not touch his food nor sit quietly, but he walked swiftly up and down the room, breathing heavily, and trembling with increasing agitation.  He urged me in his own peculiar way to leave the house and walk abroad.  He pointed to the road and strove to speak.  The attempt was fruitless, and he paced the room again, wringing his hands and sighing sorrowfully.  At length I yielded to his request, and we were again in the village, I following whithersoever he led me.  He ran through the street, like a madman as he was, bringing upon him the eyes of every one, and outstripping me speedily.  He stopped for a moment to collect himself—­looked round as though he had lost his way, and knew not whither to proceed; then bounded off again, the hunted deer not quicker in his flight, and instantly was out of sight.  Without the smallest hope of seeing him again, I pursued the fugitive, and, as well as I could guess it, continued in his track.  For half a mile I traced his steps, and then I lost them.  His last footmark was at the closed gate of a good-sized dwelling house.  The roof and highest windows only of the habitation were to be discerned from the path, and these denoted the residence of a wealthy man.  He could have no business here—­no object.  “He must have passed,” thought I, “upon the other side.”  I was about to cross the road, when I perceived, at the distance of a few yards, a man labouring in a field.  I accosted him, and asked if he had seen the idiot.

No—­he had not.  He was sure that nobody had passed by him for hours.  He must have seen the man if he had come that way.

“Whose house is that?” I asked, not knowing why I asked the question.

“What? that?” said he, pointing to the gate.  “Oh, that’s Squire Temple’s.”

The name dropped like a knife upon my heart.  I could not speak.  I must have fallen to the earth, if the man, seeing me grow pale as death, had not started to his feet, and intercepted me.  I trembled with a hundred apprehensions.  My throat was dry with fright, and I thought I should have choked.  What follows was like a hideous dream.  The gate was opened suddenly.  JAMES TEMPLE issued from