"I'm sorry you are staying," she said; "don't forget as I warned you. Remember, this ain't a proper inn at all. Once it was a mill, but that was afore Bindloss's day and mine. Gents would come in the summer and put up for the fishing, but then the story of the ghost got abroad, and lately we have no visitors to speak of, only an odd one now and then who ain't wanted--no, he ain't wanted. You see, there was three deaths here. Yes"--she held up one of her skinny hands and began to count on her fingers--"yes, three up to the present; three, that's it. Ah, here comes Bindloss." A shuffling step was heard in the passage, and an old man, bent with age, and wearing a long white beard, entered the room. "We has no beds for strangers," he said, speaking in an aggressive and loud tone. "Hasn't the wife said so? We don't let out beds here." "As that is the case, you have no right to have that signpost at the end of the lane," I retorted. "I am not in a mood to walk eight miles for a shelter in a country I know nothing about. Cannot you put me up somehow?" "I have told the gentleman everything, Sam," said the wife. "He is just for all the world like young Mr. Wentworth, and not a bit frightened." The old landlord came up and faced me. "Look you here," he said, "you stay on at your peril. I don't want you, nor do the wife. Now is it 'yes' or 'no'?" "It is 'yes,'" I said. "There's only one room you can sleep in." "One room is sufficient." "It's the one Mr. Wentworth died in. Hadn't you best take up your traps and be off?" "No, I shall stay." "Then there's no more to be said." "Run, Liz," said the woman, "and light the fire in the parlour." The girl left the room, and the woman, taking up a candle, said she would take me to the chamber where I was to sleep. She led me down a long and narrow passage, and then, opening a door, down two steps into the most extraordinary-looking room I had ever seen. The walls were completely circular, covered with a paper of a staring grotesque pattern. A small iron bedstead projected into the middle of the floor, which was uncarpeted except for a slip of matting beside it. A cheap deal wash-hand-stand, a couple of chairs, and a small table with a blurred looking-glass stood against the wall beneath a deep embrasure, in which there was a window. This was evidently a room in one of the circular towers. I had never seen less inviting quarters. "Your supper will be ready directly, sir," said the woman, and placing the candle on the little table, she left me.