"Worse than that: it has been robbed. We keep some bad characters in our parish, Mr.—"
"Menhennick, sir; George Menhennick—and this is Tresaher Farm. Bad characters, sir? I hope not. We keep no highway robbers in this parish."
He faced us, rush-lamp in hand, in his great vaulted kitchen, and the light fell on an honest, puzzled face. As for Mr. Noy's face, I regret to say that it fell when he heard this vindication of his flock.
"I brought ye into the kitchen, sirs," went on Farmer Menhennick, "because 'tis cosier. We keep a fire banked up here all night." He bent to revive it, but desisted as his wife entered with one of the house-wenches, and gave them orders to light a lamp, fetch a billet or two of wood, and make the place cheerful.
My face, I daresay, and the news of the robbery, scared the two women, who went about their work at once with a commendable quietness. But I think it was a whisper from the maidservant which caused the farmer to ejaculate, as he helped me to a chair:
"And you've walked across Blackadon Down at this hour of night! My word, sirs, and saving your reverence, but you had a nerve, if you'd only known it!"
"Why, what's the matter with Blackadon?" asked Mr. Noy sharply.
Farmer Menhennick faced him with a deprecatory grin.
"Nothing, sir—leastways, nothing more than old woman's tales, not worth a man's heeding."
"Has it by chance," said I, "anything to do with a hearse?"