"News in this den!" exclaimed Chaytor, scornfully. "One might as well be out of the world."
"Out of the world--yes, out of the world. Speak not of it; I have passed the sixties."
"I tell you what," said Chaytor, with a gloomy look around, "I don't intend to keep here much longer. It is as much like a tomb as any place I have ever seen."
"There again, there again! Out of the world, and tombs. You mock the old man. What was I saying when you interrupted me? Ah, about the woman at the post-house. I asked her for news, and she told me that three strangers had been seen this afternoon in the village."
"Rare news that. She might have saved her breath."
"Everything is news in these small villages. Now, why is it that my mind dwells upon these strangers? Such visits are common enough. Doubtless they are but passing through, and we shall hear no more of them."
"Then why keep talking about them?"
"Gently, gently. I had a bad dream last night, I saw you pursued by foes, and I hastened after you in my dreams to assist you."
"More than you would do if you were awake."
"You misjudge me. But to continue. How many foes were pursuing you? Three. How many strangers appeared in the village this afternoon? Three. See you any warning, any hidden danger in this?"