“You know him, Ashbrook—do you?”
“Yes, sir; he passed himself off as a gentleman, and was my guest at Stoke Ferry Farm for some time.”
“Indeed, and does your wife know him?”
“My wife!” exclaimed the farmer, wiping his forehead with his bandanna. “Well, sir, she does know him—knows him to be a deceptive, circumwenting, young scoundrel.”
“I am glad you have called upon me,” observed the magistrate, “because I desire to know as much as possible about the prisoner. As far as I can see at present the charge is not substantiated, but it is not possible to say what evidence is forthcoming.”
“He is a bad lot anyway,” returned the farmer.
“Appearances are against him, I admit.”
“Appearances be hanged! I tell ee that he’s a wretched impostor.”
“May be so, Ashbrook. Possibly he is so.”
“There is no possibility in the matter—he is. I tell ee, Mr. Kensett, that he is a false, deceitful fellow. I shouldn’t say this unless I had good reason for it. He’s a varmint.”