CHAPTER III.—THE EVENTS OF A NIGHT. Down-stairs in the public room, the faithful Derrick is engaged in a seemingly interesting conversation with mine host Hobb Dipping and two or three other jolly good fellows, who are all drinking at his expense. No sign yet had the attendant discovered that had served to arouse his suspicions. No word had been spoken which in any way showed that the natives of this desolate place were anxious to know more about his master or himself. A suspicion of danger often arouses our fears and doubts when there is perhaps the smallest occasion for either. The honest countrymen troubled themselves much less about the matter than even the worthy host, who was happily indifferent to everything but the fact that Mr Morton and his servant were rare and profitable customers. The lumbering knot of labourers at length departs, and mine host locks and bars the door; while Derrick, not a little fatigued with the harassing events of the day, is left standing alone, surveying a row of empty benches which the retiring fenmen have just quitted. Burly Hobb comes back puffing and blowing, his red face glowing like the setting sun, and his bald skull spotted with perspiration through the exertion he has undergone in securing the strongly built outer door. ‘Landlord, I’m going to bed,’ says Derrick, who has suddenly returned to his original gruffness. ‘Very good, sir,’ is the reply of the host, who forthwith trims and lights an atom of a lamp which he fishes out of a cupboard by the fireplace. ‘I hope you will sleep well, sir.’ Derrick’s eyes are watching the innkeeper from under his beetling brows, and he answers gruffly: ‘I hope so.’ ‘I’ve heard it said,’ goes on the loquacious host, ‘that a good sleep is worth a fortune to an over-tired man. I see nothing to prevent you sleeping well here, sir.’ ‘Not much likelihood of being roused in the night, eh?’ remarks the attendant. ‘Why, no, sir,’ answers Dipping, wondering what motive his guest could have in asking such a question. ‘There’s no one to disturb you here, unless, indeed, it be your master himself.’ ‘Many visitors here?’ inquired Derrick, as old Hobb leads the way up the dusky, creaking staircase with the flickering lamp in his hand. ‘None at all, sir,’ replied the landlord in a melancholy tone. ‘There never is any one here—leastways, very, very seldom. I haven’t had a visitor stopping in this house for a matter of—I can’t rightly say how long; but I know it’s a mortal long while, for since my poor wife died’—— ‘Is this my room?’ interrupts Derrick, as the innkeeper halts before a solid-looking black door at the head of the staircase. ‘It is,’ answers old Dipping. ‘You are pretty close to your master, sir.’