"Begow, there's summat agate!" said a burly carter. "What dost think it mud be, Jim?" "Nay, how should I know?" muttered Jim, scratching his head. "There's summat i' th' wind, for sure, but it's noan for me to say what it mud be." "Murder, happen, or high treason, an' yon's a constable chap come i' search o' th' fugitive!" This suggestion, made with an air of wise importance, came from the village cobbler. A thrill went through the company. Murder was a fearsome thing, yet they knew exactly what it was; but that ingenious touch of the cobbler's set their minds working on an unknown quantity. High treason might mean anything, and, "if it war, so to say, at their own doorstuns, a man mun look to hisseln and not be ower rash wi' his tongue." So, in wonder and trepidation, they crowded to the door of the bar, the less valiant peeping over the shoulders, or between the arms, of their comrades in front. One and all felt aggrieved when the stranger, who was still standing in the passage, showed himself to be much like other men. He wore no special dress, save the customary one of a gentleman who has reached his destination on horseback, and there was about him no trace of any peculiar odour, such as might have been associated with high treason or other of the black arts. Furthermore, when the landlord at last stepped in from the mistal at the rear of the house, he was met by the commonplace request that he would get ready a room for the night. By dint of setting the serving-maid to sleep on a sofa downstairs--her ruffled temper was not soothed by the inconvenience--the landlord was able to oblige his guest, and the horse was led round to the stables. The company in the bar returned to their mugs. They felt hurt that the stranger had offered so little excitement, though the cobbler hinted darkly that, when a man fell quiet-like and tried his hardest not to make a fuss, it was a safe thing to suspect him of having some deep-laid project on hand. Perhaps the cobbler was right; but the stranger's plans, whatever they might be, seemed to be confined just now to the matter of substantial food. "Something hot, landlord, and plenty of it!" he said briskly. "I've ridden twenty miles since my last meal." "Right, sir; I'll see to it. Will ye have it in this little room here, sir, or in th' kitchen? Th' kitchen is a sight snugger, and it's none ower warm at neets for th' time o' year." "The kitchen, by all means. This way? Don't be long with the cooking, my friend, or I shall starve." The stranger, who certainly found the Ling Crag temperature none too high on this night of early September, retired to the ingle-nook after supper, and lit a pipe. Ten sounded across the valley from Marshcotes parish church, and the occupants of the bar slouched out one by one; each, as he reached the passage, turned his eyes towards the kitchen. "What's his business, think ye?" murmured Dick the cobbler.