An hour later Mr. Hamilton was gone, and after a little lover-like talk with Theresa, Sir Harold strolled into the garden. Wet or fine, he rarely was to be found anywhere else. The low-ceilinged cottage seemed to envelop him. He could not breathe within its close walls. There had been a heavy fall of rain in the night, and the leaves were still dripping, with a sound that irritated his nerves. He had been provided with plenty of books and cigars; but neither afforded him any pleasure now, and he wandered out of the garden into the lane beyond. How many weeks had he been confined within the cottage and its environs? Six or seven? He could not remember exactly, and now the idea for viewing the country beyond seized upon him like an inspiration. If he should chance to meet people who remembered him, what did it matter? He was a free agent. But there was little likelihood of that, and he strode away, interested in every new object that met his view. When a sense of weariness began to creep over him, he knew that he must have walked half-a-dozen miles. He looked at his watch. It was eleven when he left the cottage, and now the hands pointed to the hour of one. Half-a-mile away there was a town perched upon the side of a hill. “I will get refreshments there,” he thought, “and then hasten back. Theresa will wonder what has become of me.” He went into the town, and pulled his hat over his eyes like a man who has committed some crime. The people whom he met stared curiously after him. His was no common, everyday figure. At last he turned into a public house, and, walking into a little parlor, the door of which was held invitingly open by a trim-looking maid, he called for a glass of ale and some biscuits. “This is Farnwell, is it not?” he presently inquired. “Yes, sir,” replied the girl. He was about to express his astonishment at the number of alterations that had taken place in an amazingly short space of time, when he remembered his accident. “I have not been here for a long time,” he explained, “and everything seems quite strange. Who is the landlord now?” “Mr. Fletcher, sir.” “Fletcher? Oh, I do not remember him. I suppose that the house has recently changed hands?” “Not for ten years, sir,” the maid replied. “Of course; I had forgotten my long absence. A very nice and quiet town, is it not?” He turned to a newspaper that lay near him, hoping that the girl would take the hint and retire; but it was not often that so handsome a gentleman talked to her, and she endeavored to continue the conversation. “Yes, very quiet,” she said; “rather too quiet to my liking, sir, though, of course, we do get a bit of sensation sometimes in connection with the gentry. Now, the best bit for years is the disappearance of Sir Harold Annesley, and everybody is talking about it.” Fortunately for Sir Harold, another customer came in, and he hastily finished his beer.