Antony, however, had no intention of going further away than London.  His idea of seeing the world was to see, not countries, but people; and to see them from as many angles as possible.  There are all sorts in London if you know how to look at them.  So Antony looked at them—­from various strange corners; from the view-point of the valet, the newspaper-reporter, the waiter, the shop-assistant.  With the independence of 400 pounds a year behind him, he enjoyed it immensely.  He never stayed long in one job, and generally closed his connection with it by telling his employer (contrary to all etiquette as understood between master and servant) exactly what he thought of him.  He had no difficulty in finding a new profession.  Instead of experience and testimonials he offered his personality and a sporting bet.  He would take no wages the first month, and—­if he satisfied his employer—­double wages the second.  He always got his double wages.

He was now thirty.  He had come to Waldheim for a holiday, because he liked the look of the station.  His ticket entitled him to travel further, but he had always intended to please himself in the matter.  Waldheim attracted him, and he had a suit-case in the carriage with him and money in his pocket.  Why not get out?

The landlady of ‘The George’ was only too glad to put him up, and promised that her husband would drive over that afternoon for his luggage.

“And you would like some lunch, I expect, sir.”

“Yes, but don’t give yourself any trouble about it.  Cold anything-you’ve-got.”

“What about beef, sir?” she asked, as if she had a hundred varieties of meat to select from, and was offering him her best.

“That will do splendidly.  And a pint of beer.”

While he was finishing his lunch, the landlord came in to ask about the luggage.  Antony ordered another pint, and soon had him talking.

“It must be rather fun to keep a country inn,” he said, thinking that it was about time he started another profession.

“I don’t know about fun, sir.  It gives us a living, and a bit over.”

“You ought to take a holiday,” said Antony, looking at him thoughtfully.

“Funny thing your saying that,” said the landlord, with a smile.  “Another gentleman, over from the Red House, was saying that only yesterday.  Offered to take my place ’n all.”  He laughed rumblingly.

“The Red House?  Not the Red House, Stanton?”

“That’s right, sir.  Stanton’s the next station to Waldheim.  The Red House is about a mile from here—­Mr. Ablett’s.”

Antony took a letter from his pocket.  It was addressed from “The Red House, Stanton,” and signed “Bill.”

“Good old Bill,” he murmured to himself.  “He’s getting on.”