“The ride has given me a headache,” the stranger said, “which a cup of tea will probably remove.  Beyond that, I will take nothing to-night.  Your name is—­”

“Adams, sir.  Adams is my name,” replied the landlord.

“And mine is Willoughby—­Col.  Willoughby.  “And the Englishman bowed with a slight air of condescension.

“I am at your service, Col.  Willoughby,” said the landlord in his blunt way.  “Just say what you want, and the thing is done.”

“A cup of tea will serve me to-night, my friend.  Let it be good and strong; for my head is a little unsettled with this throbbing pain.  That stage coach of yours would be something better for a pair of new springs.”

“It’s seen service, and no mistake.  But people in these parts don’t calculate much on easy riding.  Springs are no great account.  We look to the main chance.”

“What is that?”

“Getting over the ground.”

The traveler smiled to himself in a quiet way, as if the landlord’s answer had touched some memory or experience.

Nothing further being remarked, Mr. Adams retired to order a cup of tea for his guest.  Something about the Englishman had stimulated his curiosity; and, so, instead of sending the cup of tea by his wife, who did most of the waiting, he carried it to the room himself.

“Sit down, Mr. Adams,” said the traveler, after the tea had been put before him.

The landlord did not wait for a second invitation.

“I hope the tea is to your liking, sir.”

“Excellent.  I’ve not tasted better since I left London.”

The traveler spoke blandly, as he held his cup a little way from his lips, and looked over the top of it at his host with something more than a casual glance.  He was reading his face with an evident effort to gain from it, as an index, some clear impression of his character.

“My wife understands her business,” replied the flattered landlord.  “There is not her equal in all the country round.”

“I can believe you, Mr. Adams.  Already this delicious beverage has acted like a charmed potion.  My headache has left me as if by magic.”

He set his cup down; moved his chair a little way from the table at which he was sitting, and threw a pleasant look upon the landlord.

“How long have you been in this town, Mr. Adams?” The question seemed indifferently asked; but the landlord’s ear did not fail to perceive in the tone in which it was given, a foreshadowing of much beyond.

“I was born here,” he replied.

“Ah!  Then you know all the people, I imagine?”

“I know all their faces, at least.”

“And their histories and characters?”

“Perhaps.”

Something in this “perhaps,” and the tone in which it was uttered, seemed not to strike the questioner agreeably.  He bent his brows a little, and looked more narrowly at the landlord.