Chapter Eight.
Gaffin, the Miller.
Adam had just recounted to his wife his interviews with the mayor and lawyer of Morbury, and had listened to her history of Mr Herbert Castleton’s family, and the unhappy fate of his daughter, when a knock was heard at the door. The dame opened it, but drew back on seeing their visitor.
“Good-day, neighbour,” said the person who entered, a strongly-built man with a bushy black beard and a sunburnt countenance, the sinister expression of which was ill-calculated to win confidence, and whose semi-nautical costume made it doubtful whether he was a landsman or sailor.
“I have come to have a friendly chat with you, if you will give me leave?”
Without waiting for a reply, still keeping his hat on, he threw himself into a chair by the fire, glancing round the room as he did so.
“What have you got to talk about, Mr Gaffin?” asked Adam, disdaining to give the welcome he could not heartily offer, and instead of sitting down, standing with his hands in his pockets opposite his guest, while the dame continued the work in which she had been engaged.
“I hear you boarded a wreck the other morning and rescued a child from it,” observed the visitor.