John Dyce, sitting apart in a quiet corner of the long, oak-panelled, low-ceilinged room, and puffing meditatively at his churchwarden, had a quietly observant eye for every fresh face that came in. At length--but not till his glance had travelled more than once, with some anxiety in it, to the clock over the chimney-piece--his waiting was rewarded. The coffee-room door opened, and there entered a little, comfortable-looking, rosy-gilled man, in whose features professional gravity seemed to be struggling against a latent sense of humor. He was Mr. Tew, managing clerk to Mr. Piljoy, solicitor of Arkrigg, a town at the other end of the county. His employer being laid up with gout, he had been sent to Stanbrook in his stead in order to get Squire Cortelyon's will duly signed and witnessed. Having accomplished his errand, he was now on his way back home, with the will carefully buttoned up inside his breast pocket. Squire Cortelyon was not expected to live from hour to hour. "Bottle-green surtout with black velvet collar," muttered John Dyce to himself. "Front tooth broken short off; red and black silk muffler round his throat; white beaver hat the worse for wear. It must be him." Mr. Tew beckoned the waiter. "Ham and eggs and a cup of strong coffee; and let me have them as quick as possible. I must be on the road again in half an hour." "'Am-an'-eggs--yessir--have 'em in a jiffy. Going far, sir, to-night, may I ask?" "Only as far as Arkrigg." "A dozen long miles, sir, and as nasty a bit o' road as any in the county, being nearly all up-hill and windin' in an' out among the moors--let alone its bein' such a favorite road with Captain Nightshade." Then, insinuatingly: "Better stay where you are, sir. Could put you up very comfortable. His Grace of Malvern stayed with us a night last month, and before goin' away he says, says he----" "No, no," broke in Mr. Tew good-naturedly--waiters in our great-grandfathers' days were often privileged mortals--"it's not a bit of use your trying to tempt me. Home to-night I must get--highly important; and as for Captain Nightshade, he flies at higher game than the likes of me. If he were to strip me to the shirt, all I have would hardly fetch him the price of a decent dinner and a bottle of wine. So now for my ham and eggs." Not a word of all this had escaped John Dyce, but his stolid face was absolutely devoid of expression. He had changed his position to the settle near the chimney-corner, and was sitting with one hand buried deep in his breeches pocket, while the other held his long pipe, his gaze meanwhile being contemplatively fixed on a corner of the well-smoked ceiling.