“Just the man I was thinking about.”  I heard the landlord say, as some one entered the bar, while his whole manner underwent a sudden change.

“The old saying is true,” was answered in a voice, the tones of which were familiar to my ears.

“Thinking of the old Harry?” said Slade.

“Yes.”

“True, literally, in the present case,” I heard the landlord remark, though in a much lower tone; “for, if you are not the devil himself, you can’t be farther removed than a second cousin.”

A low, gurgling laugh met this little sally.  There was something in it so unlike a human laugh, that it caused my blood to trickle, for a moment, coldly along my veins.

I heard nothing more except the murmur of voices in the bar, for a hand shut the partly opened door that led from the sitting room.

Whose was that voice?  I recalled its tones, and tried to fix in my thought the person to whom it belonged, but was unable to do so.  I was not very long in doubt, for on stepping out on the porch in front of the tavern, the well remembered face of Harvey Green presented itself.  He stood in the bar-room door, and was talking earnestly to Slade, whose back was toward me.  I saw that he recognized me, although I had not passed a word with him on the occasion of my former visit, and there was a lighting up of his countenance as if about to speak—­but I withdrew my eyes from his face to avoid the unwelcome greeting.  When I looked at him again, I saw that he was regarding me with a sinister glance, which was instantly withdrawn.  In what broad, black characters was the word tempter written on his face!  How was it possible for anyone to look thereon, and not read the warning inscription!

Soon after, he withdrew into the bar-room and the landlord came and took a seat near me on the porch.

“How is the ‘Sickle and Sheaf’ coming on?” I inquired.

“First rate,” was the answer—­“First rate.”

“As well as you expected?”

“Better.”

“Satisfied with your experiment?”

“Perfectly.  Couldn’t get me back to the rumbling old mill again, if you were to make me a present of it.”

“What of the mill?” I asked.  “How does the new owner come on?”

“About as I thought it would be.”

“Not doing very well?”

“How could it be expected when he didn’t know enough of the milling business to grind a bushel of wheat right?  He lost half of the custom I transferred to him in less than three months.  Then he broke his main shaft, and it took over three weeks to get in a new one.  Half of his remaining customers discovered by this time, that they could get far better meal from their grain at Harwood’s mill near Lynwood, and so did not care to trouble him any more.  The upshot of the whole matter is, he broke down next, and had to sell the mill at a heavy loss.”

“Who has it now?”

“Judge Hammond is the purchaser.”