“Yes, he lived here as a young man.”

“They stopped at this very tavern with Morgan on their way through,” said some one in the crowd.

“And that stone building just the other side of the bridge is where the Masons met in those days,” said another.

“That’s where they took Miller,” interrupted the old man.

“Who was Miller?” I asked.

“He was the printer in Batavia who was getting out Morgan’s book; they brought him here to Stafford, and took him up into the lodge-room in that building and tried to frighten him, but he wasn’t to be frightened, so they took him on to Le Roy and let him go.”

“Did they ever find out what became of Morgan?” I asked.

There was silence for a moment, and then the old man, looking first at the others, said,—­

“No-o-o, not for sartain, but the people in this locality hed their opinion, and hev it yet.”

“You bet they have,” came from some one in the crowd.

Thursday we started for Rochester by way of Stafford and Le Roy instead of Newkirk, Byron, and Bergen, which is the more direct route and also a good road.

The morning was bright and very warm, scarcely a cloud in the sky, but there was a feeling of storm in the air,—­the earth was restless.

As we neared Stafford dark clouds were gathering in the far distant skies, but not yet near enough to cause apprehension.  Driving slowly into the village, we again visited the three-story stone house.  Here, no doubt, as elsewhere, Morgan’s forthcoming exposures were discussed and denounced, here the plot to seize him—­if plot there was—­may have been formed; but then there was probably no plot, conspiracy, or action on the part of any lodge or body of Masons.  Morgan was in their eyes a most despicable traitor,—­a man who proposed to sell—­not simply disclose, but sell—­the secrets of the order he joined.  There is no reason to believe that he had the good of any one at heart; that he had anything in view but his own material prosperity.  He made a bargain with a printer in Batavia to expose Masonry, and lost his life in attempting to carry out that bargain.  Lost his life!—­who knows?  The story is a strange one, as strange as anything in the Arabian Nights; there are men still living who faintly recollect the excitement, the fends and controversies which lasted for years.  From Batavia to Canandaigua the name of Morgan calls forth a flood of reminiscences.  A man whose father or grandfather had anything to do with the affair is a character in the community; now and then a man is found who knew a man who caught a glimpse of Morgan during that mysterious midnight ride from the Canandaigua jail over the Rochester road, and on to the end in the magazine of the old fort at Lewiston.  One cannot spend twenty-four hours in this country without being drawn into the vortex of this absorbing mystery; it hangs over the entire section, lingers along the road-sides, finds outward sign and habitation in old buildings, monuments, and ruins; it echoes from the past in musty books, papers, and pamphlets; it once was politics, now is history; the years have not solved it; time is helpless.