Just then Dame Hansen returned, and her daughter announced the arrival of a guest who demanded the best room and the best food that the inn afforded, but who vouchsafed no information in regard to the probable length of his stay.

“And he did not give his name?” asked Dame Hansen.

“No, mother.”

“Nor say whence he came?”

“No.”

“If he is not a tourist, what can have brought him to Dal?” said Dame Hansen to herself rather than to her daughter, and in a tone that indicated some uneasiness.

But Hulda could not answer this question, as the new-comer had acquainted her with none of his plans.

About an hour after his arrival the man came out into the main hall, from which his door opened, but seeing Dame Hansen sitting there, he paused upon the threshold.

Evidently he was as much of a stranger to his hostess as his hostess was to him; but he finally walked toward her, and after a long look at her from over his spectacles: 

“You are Dame Hansen, I suppose?” he said, without even touching the hat he had not yet removed from his head.

“Yes, sir.”

In the presence of this man the widow, strange to say, experienced, like her daughter, an uneasiness for which she could not account, but which her guest must have noticed.

“So you are really Dame Hansen, of Dal?” he continued.

“Certainly, sir.  Have you anything particular to say to me?”

“Nothing; I only wished to make your acquaintance.  Am I not your guest?  And now I should like you to see that I have my dinner as soon as possible.”

“Your dinner is ready,” interposed Hulda, “and if you will step into the dining-room—­”

“I will.”

As he spoke, the stranger directed his steps toward the door indicated, and a moment afterward he was seated near the window in front of a small, neatly spread table.

The dinner was certainly good.  The most fastidious traveler could not have found fault with it; nevertheless, this ill-tempered individual was not sparing in his signs and words of dissatisfaction—­especially signs, for he did not appear to be very loquacious.  One could hardly help wondering whether this fault-finding was due to a poor digestion or a bad temper.  The soup of cherries and gooseberries did not suit him, though it was excellent, and he scarcely tasted his salmon and salt-herring.  The cold ham, broiled chicken and nicely seasoned vegetables did not seem to please him, and his bottle of claret and his half bottle of champagne seemed to be equally unsatisfactory, though they came from the best cellars in France; and when the repast was concluded the guest had not even a “tack for mad” for his hostess.

After dinner the old curmudgeon lighted his pipe and went out for a walk along the river bank.

On reaching the stream he turned and fixed his eyes upon the inn.  He seemed to be studying it under all its varied aspects, as if trying to form a correct estimate of its value.