‘Ye’re no an agent, are ye?’
‘No,’ I answered.
‘Nor a factor?’
‘No.’
(He was evidently puzzled to make out what an Englishman was about in his country, and I determined not to gratify his curiosity.)
‘Ye’ll maybe be the doctor?’
‘No.’
‘Sharely ye’re no the new minister?’ he exclaimed with an expression of unfeigned alarm.
I calmed his fears, and again we proceeded on our way in silence.
When we had gone perhaps some seven or eight miles from the railway station, I noticed a stout dog-cart standing at the corner of a by-road, under a tall, straggling thorn hedge. The youth who was seated in it made a sign to the coachman to stop, and I was made aware that the dog-cart had been sent for me. I got down, and as I bade good-night to the cross-questioning farmer, I observed a grim smile of triumph on his firmly compressed lips. He evidently knew the dog-cart, and would now be able to trace the mysterious stranger.