The club, so called at Dillsborough, was held every Saturday evening in a back parlour at the Bush, and was attended generally by seven or eight members.  It was a very easy club.  There was no balloting, and no other expense attending it other than that of paying for the liquor which each man chose to drink.  Sometimes, about ten o’clock, there was a little supper, the cost of which was defrayed by subscription among those who partook of it.  It was one rule of the club, or a habit, rather, which had grown to be a rule, that Mr. Runciman might introduce into it any one he pleased.  I do not know that a similar privilege was denied to any one else; but as Mr. Runciman had a direct pecuniary advantage in promoting the club, the new-comers were generally ushered in by him.  When the attorney and Twentyman entered the room Mr. Runciman was seated as usual in an arm-chair at the corner of the fire nearest to the door, with the bell at his right hand.  He was a hale, good-looking man about fifty, with black hair, now turning grey at the edges, and a clean-shorn chin.  He had a pronounced strong face of his own, one capable of evincing anger and determination when necessary, but equally apt for smiles or, on occasion, for genuine laughter.  He was a masterful but a pleasant man, very civil to customers and to his friends generally while they took him the right way; but one who could be a Tartar if he were offended, holding an opinion that his position as landlord of an inn was one requiring masterdom.  And his wife was like him in everything,—­except in this, that she always submitted to him.  He was a temperate man in the main; but on Saturday nights he would become jovial, and sometimes a little quarrelsome.  When this occurred the club would generally break itself up and go home to bed, not in the least offended.  Indeed Mr. Runciman was the tyrant of the club, though it was held at his house expressly with the view of putting money into his pocket.  Opposite to his seat was another arm-chair,—­not so big as Mr. Runciman’s, but still a soft and easy chair, which was always left for the attorney.  For Mr. Masters was a man much respected through all Dillsborough, partly on his own account, but more perhaps for the sake of his father and grandfather.  He was a round-faced, clean-shorn man, with straggling grey hair, who always wore black clothes and a white cravat.  There was something in his appearance which recommended him among his neighbours, who were disposed to say he “looked the gentleman;” but a stranger might have thought his cheeks to be flabby and his mouth to be weak.