He was thought to be wealthy. No doubt he was, but at the cost of a good deal of harshness towards the tenants on his estates, and he was famed throughout Staffordshire for driving a harder bargain than anyone else this country side. Any traveller—let alone one of such consequence as the Squire of Hartington—was indeed rare in these out-of-the-way parts, that were on the way to nowhere. Sir Humphrey himself was but little known in the neighbourhood of Aldwark and Wirksworth, and only from time to time passed through the latter village on his way to Derby. John Stich, the blacksmith, however, knew every one of consequence for a great many miles around, and undoubtedly next to the Earls of Stretton the Challoners were the most important family in the sister counties. Therefore when Sir Humphrey’s coach stopped at the cross-roads, and the Squire himself alighted therefrom and walked towards the smith’s cottage, the latter came forward with all the deference due to a personage of such consequence, and asked respectfully what he might do for his Honour. "Only repair this pistol for me, master smith," said Sir Humphrey; "you might also examine the lock of its fellow. One needs them in these parts." He laughed a not unpleasant boisterous laugh as he handed a pair of silver-mounted pistols to John Stich. "Will your Honour wait while I get them done?" asked John, with some hesitation. "They won’t take long." "Nay! I’ll be down this way again to-morrow," replied his Honour. "I am putting up at Aldwark for the night." John said nothing. Probably he mistrusted the language which rose to his lips at this announcement of Sir Humphrey’s plans. In a moment he remembered Lady Patience’s look of terror when the squire’s coach first came into view on the crest of the distant hill, and his faithful, honest heart quivered with apprehension at the thought that a man whom she so obviously mistrusted was so close upon her track. "I suppose there is a decent inn in that God-forsaken hole, eh?" asked the Squire, jovially. "I’ve arranged to meet my man of business there, that old scarecrow, Mittachip, but I’d wish to spend the night." "There’s only a small wayside inn, your Honour..." murmured John. "Better than this abode of cut-throats, this Brassing Moor, anyway," laughed his Honour. "Begad! night overtook me some ten miles from Hartington, and I was attacked by a damned rascal who robbed me of fifty guineas. My men were a pair of cowards, and I was helpless inside my coach." John tried to repress a smile. The story of Sir Humphrey Challoner’s midnight adventure had culminated in fifty guineas being found in the poor box at Brassington court-house, and Mr Inch, the beadle, had brought the news of it even as far as the cross-roads.