In this way it was settled among them that Colonel Osborne was to be received.  On the next morning, Friday morning, Colonel Osborne, doubtless having heard something of Mrs Crocket from his friend at Cockchaffington, was up early, and had himself driven over to Nuncombe Putney before breakfast.  The ever-watchful Bozzle was, of course, at his heels or rather, not at his heels on the first two miles of the journey; for Bozzle, with painful zeal, had made himself aware of all the facts, and had started on the Nuncombe Putney road half an hour before the Colonel’s fly was in motion.  And when the fly passed him he was lying discreetly hidden behind an old oak.  The driver, however, had caught a glimpse of him as he was topping a hill, and having seen him about on the previous day, and perceiving that he was dressed in a decent coat and trousers, and that, nevertheless, he was not a gentleman, began to suspect that he was somebody.  There was a great deal said afterwards about Bozzle in Mrs Clegg’s yard at Lessboro’; but the Lessboro’ mind was never able to satisfy itself altogether respecting Bozzle and his mission.  As to Colonel Osborne and his mission, the Lessboro’ mind did satisfy itself with much certainty.  The horse was hardly taken from out of Colonel Osborne’s fly in Mrs Crocket’s yard when Bozzle stepped into the village by a path which he had already discovered, and soon busied himself among the tombs in the churchyard.  Now, one corner of the churchyard was immediately opposite to the iron gate leading into the Clock House.  ’Drat ‘un,’ said the wooden-legged postman, still sitting on his donkey, to Mrs Crocket’s ostler, ’if there be’ant the chap as was here yesterday when I was a starting, and I zeed ‘un in Lezbro’ Street thick very morning.’  ’He be’ant arter no good, that ‘un,’ said the ostler.  After that a close watch was kept upon the watcher.

In the meantime, Colonel Osborne had ordered his breakfast at the Stag and Antlers, and had asked questions as to the position of the Clock House.  He was altogether ignorant of Mr Bozzle, although Mr Bozzle had been on his track now for two days and two nights.  He had determined, as he came on to Nuncombe Putney, that he would not be shame-faced about his visit to Mrs Trevelyan.  It is possible that he was not so keen in the matter as he had.  Been when he planned his journey in London; and, it may be, that he really tried to make himself believe that he had come all the way to the confines of Dartmoor to see the porch of Cockchaffington Church.  The session in London was over, and it was necessary for such a man as Colonel Osborne that he should do something with himself before he went down to the Scotch grouse.  He had long desired to see something of the most picturesque county in England; and now, as he sat eating his breakfast in Mrs Crocket’s parlour, he almost looked upon his dear Emily as a subsidiary attraction.  ‘Oh, that’s the Clock House,’ he said to Mrs Crocket.  ’No, I have not the pleasure of knowing Mrs Stanbury; very respectable lady, so I have heard; widow of a clergyman; ah, yes; son up in London; I know him, always writing books, is he?  Very clever, I dare say.  But there’s a lady indeed, two ladies whom I do know.  Mrs Trevelyan is there, I think and Miss Rowley.’