Why had they suspended him?  Surely it would have been more usual if they had allowed him to leave the office in charge of his chief clerk, or if they had given charge of it to a competent person from Rodhaven, and not sent a traveler from London?  The traveling inspector is the bird of evil presage:  he hovers over the houses of doomed men.

William Dale ran his hand round the collarless neck of his shirt, and felt the perspiration that had suddenly moistened his skin.

He was a big man of thirty-five; a type of the strong-limbed, quick-witted peasant, who is by nature active as a squirrel and industrious as a beaver; and who, if once fired with ambition, soon learns to direct all his energies to a chosen end, and infallibly wins his way from the cart-tracks and the muck-wagons to office stools and black coats.  Not yet dressed for the day, in his loose serge jacket and unbraced trousers, he looked what was termed locally “a rum customer if you had to tackle un.”  His dark hair bristled stiffly, his short mustache wanted a lot of combing, a russet stubble covered chin and neck; but the broad forehead and blue eyes gave a suggestion of power and intelligence to an aspect that might otherwise have seemed simply forbidding.

“Good marnin’, sir.”

One of the helpers at the Roebuck stables had come slouching past.

“Good mornin’, Samuel.”

It was still music to the ears of the postmaster when people addressed him as “Sir.”  Especially if, like that fellow, they had known him as a boy.  But he thought now that perhaps many who spoke to him thus deferentially in truth desired his downfall.

Quite possible.  One never knows.  He himself wished them well, in his heart was fond of them all, and craved their regard; although he was too proud to be always seeking it, or even going half-way to meet it.

And he thought, tolerantly, that you can not have everything in this world.  Your successful man is rarely a popular man.  He had had the success in full measure—­if it pleased them, let the envious ones go on envying him his elevated station, his domestic comfort, and his pretty wife.

As he thought of his wife all his reflections grew tender.  She was probably still fast asleep; and when, presently, he went up-stairs to the private part of the house, he was careful not to disturb her.

His official clothes lay waiting for him on a chair in the kitchen.  They had been brushed and folded by Mary, the servant, who sprang to attention at the appearance of her master, brought him shaving-water, arranged the square of looking-glass conveniently, assisted with the white collar and black tie, and generally proved herself an efficient valet.

She ventured to ask a question when Mr. Dale was about to leave the kitchen.

“Any news, sir?”

“News!” Mr. Dale echoed the word sternly.  “What news should there be—­anyway, what news that concerns you?