Of course, there was no more to be said. Walter did not care to interfere with the professor's plans, and he was ashamed to admit that he was nervous and alarmed. Perhaps his fears were groundless. He began to think so when at seven o'clock the stable-boy brought round a powerful black horse to the front of the inn, and the stranger who had given him so much anxiety vaulted into the saddle and rode away, without even turning to look at him.
“Who is that fellow?” he asked of an old man who stood near, smoking a clay pipe.
The old man looked thoughtfully at the stranger, who had now ridden out of the yard.
“Seems to me I've seen that face before,” he said slowly, “but I can't rightly tell where.”
“He doesn't look like a farmer.”
“No. If he lived anywhere within twenty miles I'd know him. He's a stranger.”
“His looks don't recommend him.”
“You're right there, boy.”
“I shouldn't be surprised to hear that he was an outlaw.”
“One of Jesse James' band, mayhap,” suggested the old man, with a smile.