“Well, we ought I think to go and see that house by the crossways,” he said when he had seen the photograph. “Doncaster is a quick run from King’s Cross. We could get there and back to-morrow. I’m interested to see the house to discover which poor Blair tramped all over England. This must have come into his possession,” he added, handling the photograph, “without any name or any clue whatever to its situation.”
I agreed that we ought to go and see for ourselves, therefore, after spending a quiet evening at the Devonshire, we left by the early train next day for Yorkshire. On arrival at Doncaster station, to which we ran through from London without a stop, we took a fly and drove out upon the broad, snowy highroad through Bentley for about six miles or so, until, after skirting Owston Park we came suddenly upon the crossroads where stood the lonely old house, just as shown in the photograph.
It was a quaint, old place, like one of those old toll-houses one sees in ancient prints, the old bar being of course missing. The gate-post, however, still remained, and snow having fallen in the night the scene presented was truly wintry and picturesque. The antique house with its broad, smoking chimney at the end had apparently been added to since the photograph had been taken, for at right angles was a new wing of red brick, converting it into quite a comfortable abode. Yet, as we approached, the old place rising out of the white, snow-covered plain breathed mutely of those forgotten days when the York and London coaches passed it, when masked gentlemen-of-the-road lurked in these dark, fir plantations which stood out beyond the open common at Kirkhouse Green, and when the post-boys were never tired of singing the praises of those wonderful cheeses at the old Bell in Stilton.
Our driver passed the place and about a quarter of a mile further on we stopped him, alighted and walked back together, ordering the man to await us.
On knocking at the door an aged old woman in cap and ribbons, opened it, whereupon Reggie, who assumed the position of spokesman, made excuse that we were passing, and, noticing by its exterior that the place was evidently an old toll-house, could not resist the inducement to call and request to be allowed to look within.
“I’m sure you’re very welcome, gentlemen,” answered the woman, in her broad, Yorkshire dialect. “It’s an old place and lots o’ folk have been here and looked over it in my time.”
Across the room were the black old beams of two centuries before, the old chimney-corner looked warm and cosy with its oaken, well-polished settle, and the big pot simmering upon the fire. The furniture, too, was little changed since the old coaching days, while about the place was a general air of affluence and comfort.
“You’ve lived here a long time, I suppose?” Reggie inquired, when we had glanced around and noted the little lancet window in the chimney-corner whence the toll-keeper in the old days could obtain a view for miles along the highroad that ran away across the open moorlands.
“I’ve been here this three-and-twenty years come next Michaelmas.”
“And your husband?”