I took the bull by the horns.  I never neglect an opportunity of this nature, for however irrelevant to the matter in hand an episode may seem to be, not infrequently I have found that it is by the pursuit of such chance clews that one is led to the very piece of news that is sought.

“Drink up, gentlemen,” I said, “and as the night draws on, we shall just have time for a peg of whisky before ten o’clock.”

My effort proved successful, for whilst Martin prepared the ordered drinks, almost with alacrity, Hawkins became quite confidential.

“Young Mr. Edward Hines that was, sir,” he confided, in a church whisper.  “His father is the biggest farmer round these parts and young Mr. Edward is a terror with the gals, he is.  Mind you, he’s straight out about it.  Comes in here, he do, and says straight out who he’s after.  And it’s woe betide the one who takes him up on it.  I’m glad my gal is up to London, with that Mr. Edward about, I am.”

The drinks being placed upon the counter, he ceased, and: 

“Good health!” said I; then:  “Yes—­about our mutilated young friend?” I prompted.

“Well,” continued Hawkins—­“it’s kind o’ funny, ain’t it, Martin?”

The landlord growled.

“Mr. Edward he come in here three weeks back all puffed up with himself.  Said he’d got an appointment with a lady down from London what was coming all the way from West Wingham to see him.  Didn’t he, Martin?”

Martin corroborated.

“He see her, too,” declared Hawkins with a sort of schoolboy naivete.  “And he see her again four nights after.  She give him a present—­a keepsake.  He showed us.  Then he seen her a third time, and—­”

Hawkins ceased speaking and looked at the landlord as if mutely appealing for his aid in making clear to me what occurred at this third tryst with the mysterious “lady from London.”

“Go on,” prompted Martin.  “Tell him.  He’s stopping here; he’s all right.”

I keenly appreciated the compliment conveyed by this, the landlord’s longest speech of the evening, and raised my glass to him.  “Well, then,” Hawkins resumed, “we didn’t see him for a night or two, but on the Wednesday—­”

“The Thursday,” corrected Martin.

“Right you are, Martin,” agreed Hawkins—­“the Thursday it were.  I met Farmer Hines comin’ back from Wingham market as I came here mid-day.  It were the Thursday.  Well, then, on the Thursday young Mr. Edward he turns up after dark.  Sort of slinked in he did.  There was three or four of us here, there was that night, wasn’t there, Martin?  ’Course it were market day.  Slinked in he did, and his face was like you see it to-night only worse.  He never said a word to nobody and nobody never said nothin’ to him, not likely.  Just gulped down a double Scotch and slinked out.  What do you think about that for a story, eh, sir?”

He looked at me triumphantly.  For my own part I must confess I was disappointed.  A cat-and-dog squabble between a rustic Lothario and some local virago did not excite me so intensely as it seemed to excite my companions.