“That man lives here,” whispered Miss Wilson, “and I suppose he wants to get rid of us.” “H’m!” said Fairholme. Then, turning to the strange laborer with the air of a person not to be trifled with, he raised his voice, and said: “You live here, do you, my man?” “I do, sir, by your good leave, if I may make so bold.” “What’s your name?” “Jeff Smilash, sir, at your service.” “Where do you come from?” “Brixtonbury, sir.” “Brixtonbury! Where’s that?” “Well, sir, I don’t rightly know. If a gentleman like you, knowing jography and such, can’t tell, how can I?” “You ought to know where you were born, man. Haven’t you got common sense?” “Where could such a one as me get common sense, sir? Besides, I was only a foundling. Mebbe I warn’s born at all.” “Did I see you at church last Sunday?” “No, sir. I only come o’ Wensday.” “Well, let me see you there next Sunday,” said Fairholme shortly, turning away from him. Miss Wilson looked at the weather, at Josephs, who was conversing with Jane, and finally at Smilash, who knuckled his forehead without waiting to be addressed. “Have you a boy whom you can send to Lyvern to get us a conveyance--a carriage? I will give him a shilling for his trouble.” “A shilling!” said Smilash joyfully. “Your ladyship is a noble lady. Two four-wheeled cabs. There’s eight on you.” “There is only one cab in Lyvern,” said Miss Wilson. “Take this card to Mr. Marsh, the jotmaster, and tell him the predicament we are in. He will send vehicles.” Smilash took the card and read it at a glance. He then went into the chalet. Reappearing presently in a sou’wester and oilskins, he ran off through the rain and vaulted over the gate with ridiculous elegance. No sooner had he vanished than, as often happens to remarkable men, he became the subject of conversation. “A decent workman,” said Josephs. “A well-mannered man, considering his class.” “A born fool, though,” said Fairholme. “Or a rogue,” said Agatha, emphasizing the suggestion by a glitter of her eyes and teeth, whilst her schoolfellows, rather disapproving of her freedom, stood stiffly dumb. “He told Miss Wilson that he had a sister, and that he had been to church last Sunday, and he has just told you that he is a foundling, and that he only came last Wednesday. His accent is put on, and he can read, and I don’t believe he is a workman at all. Perhaps he is a burglar, come down to steal the college plate.” “Agatha,” said Miss Wilson gravely, “you must be very careful how you say things of that kind.” “But it is so obvious. His explanation about the umbrella was made up to disarm suspicion. He handled it and leaned on it in a way that showed how much more familiar it was to him than that new spade he was so anxious about. And all his clothes are new.” “True,” said Fairholme, “but there is not much in all that. Workmen nowadays ape gentlemen in everything. However, I will keep an eye on him.”