"Yes, to be sure, and always will be. But the miller has let it for two years past. He makes a little out of it, and so do I, not so much as I should like, for the gentleman is only there now and then. He’s a Swiss gentleman that keeps a hotel in Namur. A great fisherman, he is; he’ll fish for hours in the millpond, and I wonder he has the patience for it, for there’s not much to be caught there since the grinding stopped. Still, I don’t complain; he buys my eggs and butter when he comes there, two or three times a year perhaps. He’s there now, with a few friends of his." "I should like to have a chat with your friend the miller," said Pariset. "He’d like it too, monsieur. He doesn’t have much company, and he’d like to hear about things from an officer; you can’t believe what you read in the papers. I’ll take you across the fields." In a few minutes they were seated in a cosy little parlour, opposite a sturdy countryman, hale and hearty in spite of his seventy odd years. He asked shrewd questions about the war, foresaw great trouble for his country, but, like the farmer, was cheered by the news that "les braves Anglais" were coming once more to her rescue. When Pariset led up to the subject of his mill he became animated. "Ah! the old mill is a rare old place," he said with a chuckle. "The things I could tell you! There was more than milling in the old days. Times are changed. We’re all for law now. But in my grandfather’s time--why, monsieur, he’s dead and gone this forty years, so it will do him no harm if I tell you he was a smuggler. Many and many a barrel of good brandy used to get across the border without paying duty. Why, underneath the old mill there are cellars and passages where he used to store contraband worth thousands of francs. I used to steal down there when I was a boy, and ma foi! it made my skin creep, though there was nothing to be afraid of. But ’tis fifty years since my old grandfather closed them down, and they’ve never been opened up since." "Your present tenant is a hotel-keeper, I hear. He would be interested to know about the smuggling." "That he was, to be sure. He laughed when I told him about it. ’We can’t get rich that way nowadays,’ said he. He seems to have plenty of money, though; pays me a good rent. ’Tis strange what whims gentlemen have. A month’s fishing in the pond wouldn’t feed him for a week. He calls it sport; well, in my young days I liked something more lively. But the fishing is just an excuse; he comes there now and then for a change and quiet, though he’s not a solitary, like some fishermen. He has a party of friends sometimes; all Swiss like himself." "French Swiss?" asked Pariset. "No, German Swiss. For my part, I’ve no great liking for German Swiss. They’re only one remove from Germans. But his money is good, and it’s something to make a little money out of the old mill after all these years."