“Very well—only don’t stop late, Richard.”
“I’ll take good care of that.”
“It being market-day there’ll be a goodish many people there, I expect.”
“Likely enough I may pick up some information.”
Richard Ashbrook sallied forth, and in a few minutes’ time he was in the snug little parlour of the “Carved Lion.”
The room was full of people, many of whom were very well known to the farmer, who was a special favourite with the frequenters of the room.
A young swell, who was a stranger to all present, was holding forth to the yokels. To all appearance he was a gentleman. There was an air of refinement and condescension about him which seemed to indicate that he was of gentle birth.
He affected to commiserate with the person who had been the victim of the burglars, and assumed such a high tone of morality that all present were under the impression that he was a person of great rectitude.
But Ashbrook was not furnished with much more information than he had already gathered from Mother Bagley.
Nevertheless, he remained for some time listening to what the people had to say. As he was about leaving the stranger rose also, and made his way towards the bar. By this time it had commenced to rain in torrents.