Her laugh had no uneasiness in it now; she saw that Kate Strangeways, the actual, had very little to do with that swift light of enthusiasm on Griff's face. "If you are a very good boy, I may bring you again--but I warn you that her husband is jealous; are you afraid for your skin, Griff?" "Not I; I would not forego that model if there were fifty husbands, each with a hundred jealousies. When will you bring me again?" "Just like your father, just! You must take life at a gallop. We will see; perhaps at the end of the week." When Joe Strangeways went to the kitchen sink that night for his evening wash, Hannah, the maid of all work, took care to be at hand. Hannah had lost no whit of her spite against her mistress, and she saw that something was to be made out of that morning's visit. "It's a doiting bird 'at leaves its nest for another," she observed, polishing a knife on a leather board. "If tha's getten owt to say, speak up, lass, an' doan't go dithering an' mumbling to thyseln." "Mrs. Lummax war playing th' grand lady here again the morn." "Oh, she war, war she? A limb o' th' devil, I call her, and a limb o' th' devil I say she is, choose who hears me. Hast 'a nowt else to say?" "She warn't by herseln. That long-legged son of hers came along wi' her. Seems like as if he fancies hisseln, thinks hisseln fearful fine, wi' his Lunnon slithery spache; he'd mak a likely pair o' tongs, yon, I'm thinking." "Lang i' th' leg an' short i' th' heäd, as t' saying is," chuckled Joe. "What wod my fine gentleman be after, think ye?" Hannah tossed her head, and her thin black hair stood up straight from her forehead in token of outraged scruples. "What should fine gentlemen be after, when they cross three miles o' moor to see a man's wife--and him away all th' day at th' quarries? Some fowk are fearful slow to see which way their noses point." Joe reflectively washed the soap-suds from his face and buried his head in a towel. He was indebted to Hannah for a suggestion that might bear fruit in the near future. CHAPTER IV. AT THE SIGN OF THE DOG AND GROUSE. The bar of the Dog and Grouse hostelry at Ling Crag was very noisy on Wednesday night. The serving-maid was beginning to show signs of temper, for orders were being hurled at her with confusing rapidity, and with reiterated requests that she should hurry. From the girl's snappishness, and the density of the tobacco-smoke that filled the bar, an _habitué_ of the inn could have guessed the time--close upon ten o'clock--with almost as much certainty as if he had used the ordinary form of chronometer. The clatter of mugs, the burr of weather-roughened voices, ceased on a sudden. The men took their pipes from their mouths and gaped interrogatories one at the other. For they had heard a horse ridden up to the door at a gallop, and a stamp of feet on the sanded floor, and an abrupt demand on the part of some unknown male to see the landlord.