“You must be Captain Hagberd,” he said, with easy assurance.

The old man spun round, pulling out his spade, startled by the strange voice.

“Yes, I am,” he answered nervously.

The other, smiling straight at him, uttered very slowly:  “You’ve been advertising for your son, I believe?”

“My son Harry,” mumbled Captain Hagberd, off his guard for once.  “He’s coming home tomorrow.”

“The devil he is!” The stranger marvelled greatly, and then went on, with only a slight change of tone:  “You’ve grown a beard like Father Christmas himself.”

Captain Hagberd drew a little nearer, and leaned forward over his spade.  “Go your way,” he said, resentfully and timidly at the same time, because he was always afraid of being laughed at.  Every mental state, even madness, has its equilibrium based upon self-esteem.  Its disturbance causes unhappiness; and Captain Hagberd lived amongst a scheme of settled notions which it pained him to feel disturbed by people’s grins.  Yes, people’s grins were awful.  They hinted at something wrong:  but what?  He could not tell; and that stranger was obviously grinning—­had come on purpose to grin.  It was bad enough on the streets, but he had never before been outraged like this.

The stranger, unaware how near he was of having his head laid open with a spade, said seriously:  “I am not trespassing where I stand, am I?  I fancy there’s something wrong about your news.  Suppose you let me come in.”

“You come in!” murmured old Hagberd, with inexpressible horror.

“I could give you some real information about your son—­the very latest tip, if you care to hear.”

“No,” shouted Hagberd.  He began to pace wildly to and fro, he shouldered his spade, he gesticulated with his other arm.  “Here’s a fellow—­a grinning fellow, who says there’s something wrong.  I’ve got more information than you’re aware of.  I’ve all the information I want.  I’ve had it for years—­for years—­for years—­enough to last me till to-morrow.  Let you come in, indeed!  What would Harry say?”

Bessie Carvil’s figure appeared in black silhouette on the parlour window; then, with the sound of an opening door, flitted out before the other cottage, all black, but with something white over her head.  These two voices beginning to talk suddenly outside (she had heard them indoors) had given her such an emotion that she could not utter a sound.

Captain Hagberd seemed to be trying to find his way out of a cage.  His feet squelched in the puddles left by his industry.  He stumbled in the holes of the ruined grass-plot.  He ran blindly against the fence.

“Here, steady a bit!” said the man at the gate, gravely stretching his arm over and catching him by the sleeve.  “Somebody’s been trying to get at you.  Hallo! what’s this rig you’ve got on?  Storm canvas, by George!” He had a big laugh.  “Well, you are a character!”