"At Marshminster."
"And what are you doing here?"
"Ah, that's a long story. If you----"
"Please to walk in, sir," interrupted Rose at this moment, "my father desires to speak with you."
"I have then to submit myself to the approval of the landlord," said I, and forthwith entered the house, followed by Francis Briarfield.
The landlord, a lean, saturnine man, above the common height, saluted me with a sour smile. In appearance and demeanor he was quite in keeping with that dreary inn. About him lurked a Puritanic flavor, not ill suited to his somber attire and unctuous speech. He was less like an innkeeper than a smug valet. I mistrusted the man at first sight.
"I can give you supper and a bed, sir," said he, bending his body and rubbing his hands, "neither, I regret to say, of the first quality."
"Never mind," I answered, unstrapping my knapsack. "I am too tired and hungry to be particular."
"We have only lately taken up this house, sir," he continued, still bowing, "and things are a trifle disordered."
I glanced round. Despite the cheerful blaze of a fire, the room had a mildewed look, as though long uninhabited. Traces of hasty cleansing were visible in all corners, and in the dim light filtered through dusty panes, the apartment had a singularly uninviting aspect. Again that premonition of misfortune came over me.