THE NARRATIVE.
[CHAPTER I.]
A PRENTICE HAND.
Among other wayfarers who, on a certain evening some four months subsequently to the events already narrated, halted at the King's Arms Hotel, Appleford, in order to refresh the inner man, was a stranger on horseback, with a rather bulky saddle-bag strapped behind him, who, judging from his style and appearance, might have been a cattle jobber on his way to some fair, or farm bailiff, a "statesman" who farmed his own acres, and had a comfortable little balance at the local bank; or, at any rate, a man used to a healthy, outdoor country life, to whom existence in a town would have been nothing less than intolerable.
Having dismounted from his very serviceable nag, he gave it into the ostler's charge, with strict injunctions that it was to be well cared for, and then made for the coffee-room, where, five minutes later, he was seated with a noble cold sirloin before him, and at his elbow a tankard of the best old ale the house could supply.
He was a prime trencherman, was John Dyce--they were common enough in those days--and it would have made a modern dyspeptic stare to watch the heroic way in which he attacked the sirloin, and with what unequivocal appetite one well-mustarded slice after another, with its accompaniment of delicious home-made bread, was disposed of. But not even John could go on eating forever, and by and by he laid down his knife and fork with an audible sigh, which might be partly due to the satisfaction which comes--or should come--of comfortable repletion, and partly a sigh of regret at having to bid farewell to the sirloin. While the waiter cleared away he went as far as the stable in order to satisfy himself that his nag was being properly looked after. He was gone some little time, and when he came back he ordered a churchwarden pipe, a screw of tobacco, and a tumbler of cold punch to be brought him.
There were some half-dozen people in the room who had been there when he arrived, and a number of others had come and gone in the interim. Now and then a bell would be heard to ring somewhere indoors, now and then a chaise or other vehicle would rattle up to the door and come to an abrupt stand. The Highflyer coach, going south, had stopped for exactly three minutes and a half in order to change horses, during which time a majority of the passengers had crowded into the hotel, clamoring for drinks of various kinds.
John Dyce, sitting apart in a quiet corner of the long, oak-panelled, low-ceilinged room, and puffing meditatively at his churchwarden, had a quietly observant eye for every fresh face that came in. At length--but not till his glance had travelled more than once, with some anxiety in it, to the clock over the chimney-piece--his waiting was rewarded.
The coffee-room door opened, and there entered a little, comfortable-looking, rosy-gilled man, in whose features professional gravity seemed to be struggling against a latent sense of humor. He was Mr. Tew, managing clerk to Mr. Piljoy, solicitor of Arkrigg, a town at the other end of the county. His employer being laid up with gout, he had been sent to Stanbrook in his stead in order to get Squire Cortelyon's will duly signed and witnessed. Having accomplished his errand, he was now on his way back home, with the will carefully buttoned up inside his breast pocket. Squire Cortelyon was not expected to live from hour to hour.
"Bottle-green surtout with black velvet collar," muttered John Dyce to himself. "Front tooth broken short off; red and black silk muffler round his throat; white beaver hat the worse for wear. It must be him."