“What, did he come on a horse, Sam?  What sort of a looking creature is it? you may judge of a man from the sort of horse-company he keeps.”

“Well, then, sir, I hardly know.  It’s coal black, and looks as knowing as possible; it’s tried twice to get a kick at me, but I was down upon him, and put the bucket in his way.  Howsomdever, I don’t think it’s a bad animal, as a animal, mind you, sir, though a little bit wicious or so.”

“Well,” said the publican, as he drew the ostler half a pint instead of a quart, “you’re always drinking; take that.”

“Blow me,” said the ostler, “half a pint, master!”

“Plague take you, I can’t stand parleying with you, there’s the parlour bell; perhaps, after all, he will have some breakfast.”

While the landlord was away the ostler helped himself to a quart of the strongest ale, which, by a singular faculty that he had acquired, he poured down his throat without any effort at swallowing, holding his head back, and the jug at a little distance from his mouth.

Having accomplished this feat, he reversed the jug, giving it a knowing tap with his knuckles as though he would have signified to all the world that it was empty, and that he had accomplished what he desired.

In the meantime, the landlord had made his way to his strange guest, who said to him, when he came into the room,

“Is there not one Sir Francis Varney residing in this town?”

“The devil!” thought the landlord; “this is another of them, I’ll bet a guinea.  Sir Francis Varney, sir, did you say?  Why, sir, there was a Sir Francis Varney, but folks seem to think as how he’s no better than he should be—­a sort of vampyre, sir, if you know what that is.”

“I have, certainly, heard of such things; but can you not tell me Varney’s address?  I wish to see him.”

“Well, then, sir, I cannot tell it to you, for there’s really been such a commotion and such a riot about him that he’s taken himself off, I think, altogether, and we can hear nothing of him.  Lord bless you, sir, they burnt down his house, and hunted him about so, that I don’t think that he’ll ever show his face here again.”

“And cannot you tell me where he was seen last?”

“That I cannot, sir; but, if anybody knows anything about him, it’s Mr. Henry Bannerworth, or perhaps Dr. Chillingworth, for they have had more to do with him than anybody else.”

“Indeed; and can you tell me the address of the former individual?”

“That I can’t, sir, for the Bannerworths have left the Hall.  As for the doctor, sir, you’ll see his house in the High-street, with a large brass plate on the door, so that you cannot mistake it.  It’s No. 9, on the other side of the way.”

“I thank you for so much information,” said the stranger, and rising, he walked to the door.  Before, however, he left, he turned, and added,—­“You can say, if you should by chance meet Mr. Bannerworth, that a Hungarian nobleman wishes to speak to him concerning Sir Francis Varney, the vampyre?”