The ordering of the carriage is easily accomplished.  The inn possesses one horse and one chaise.  The landlord has a story to tell of the horse, and a story to tell of the chaise.  They resemble the story of Francis Raven—­with this exception, that the horse and chaise belong to no religious persuasion.  “The horse will be nine year old next birthday.  I’ve had the shay for four-and-twenty year.  Mr. Max, of Underbridge, he bred the horse; and Mr. Pooley, of Yeovil, he built the shay.  It’s my horse and my shay.  And that’s their story!” Having relieved his mind of these details, the landlord proceeds to put the harness on the horse.  By way of assisting him, I drag the chaise into the yard.  Just as our preparations are completed, Mrs. Fairbank appears.  A moment or two later the hostler follows her out.  He has bandaged the horse’s leg, and is now ready to drive us to Farleigh Hall.  I observe signs of agitation in his face and manner, which suggest that my wife has found her way into his confidence.  I put the question to her privately in a corner of the yard.  “Well?  Have you found out why Francis Raven was up all night?”

Mrs. Fairbank has an eye to dramatic effect.  Instead of answering plainly, Yes or No, she suspends the interest and excites the audience by putting a question on her side.

“What is the day of the month, dear?”

“The day of the month is the first of March.”

“The first of March, Percy, is Francis Raven’s birthday.”

I try to look as if I was interested—­and don’t succeed.

“Francis was born,” Mrs. Fairbank proceeds gravely, “at two o’clock in the morning.”

I begin to wonder whether my wife’s intellect is going the way of the landlord’s intellect.  “Is that all?” I ask.

“It is not all,” Mrs. Fairbank answers.  “Francis Raven sits up on the morning of his birthday because he is afraid to go to bed.”

“And why is he afraid to go to bed?”

“Because he is in peril of his life.”

“On his birthday?”

“On his birthday.  At two o’clock in the morning.  As regularly as the birthday comes round.”

There she stops.  Has she discovered no more than that?  No more thus far.  I begin to feel really interested by this time.  I ask eagerly what it means?  Mrs. Fairbank points mysteriously to the chaise—­with Francis Raven (hitherto our hostler, now our coachman) waiting for us to get in.  The chaise has a seat for two in front, and a seat for one behind.  My wife casts a warning look at me, and places herself on the seat in front.

The necessary consequence of this arrangement is that Mrs. Fairbank sits by the side of the driver during a journey of two hours and more.  Need I state the result?  It would be an insult to your intelligence to state the result.  Let me offer you my place in the chaise.  And let Francis Raven tell his terrible story in his own words.