"I expect you'd issue some passports," said Anthony. "Any way, please don't go. And, if Gramarye's what you want, you're free to come and work whenever you like. Nobody'll say anything to you; but if they did—I'm going to Town to-morrow—my name's Lyveden, and I'm the—the agent here."
"You're very good," said the artist; and with that he filled his pipe and set to work again.
Anthony went about his business.
By the time he had washed Patch, the stranger was gone.
Dusk was falling ere Lyveden saw him again—a tall, thin figure striding up the track from the depths of Gramarye. As he passed the cottage, the ex-officer hailed him, offering to house his paraphernalia for the night. After a moment's hesitation, the other accepted…. With the interior of the cabin he was plainly delighted, pointing his host a score of engaging features which only an antiquary would have recognized. Anthony gave him some tea, and the two sat smoking for the inside of an hour.
At length the artist rose.
"I must get back to Girdle," he said. "About two miles, isn't it?"
"About that. I won't say 'Good-bye.' If Gramarye suits you, perhaps I shall see you again."
"Thanks to your laisser passer, you may. I want to get on to
Woodstock, really; but your woods are worth a day or two. Good night."
He swung off into the darkness, and a minute later Anthony heard his steps upon the metalling of the London road.