In the neat little parlour of the Falcon, with its well-sanded floor, its polished, black mahogany table, its corner-cupboard with a glass door, displaying sundry objects of interest and curiosity, from odd-shaped tea-pots of rich old china, to apostle-spoons and sugar-basins of the reign of Anne, whose pert and foolish motto of "semper eadem," adopted because she was the weakest and most vacillating of women, still ornamented the silver; in this neat parlour, of a little neat country inn, sat Charles Tyrrell, waiting, perhaps, with some impatience for the coming of Mr. Driesen. There were traces upon his face of the sorrows through which he had passed. He was paler, thinner, sterner, we may say more manly, than he had appeared a month before; but yet within the last few days his countenance had undergone another and a better change, a cloud had been blown from off the sky: his face was clear of some part of its anxiety. He was grave, perhaps sad; for the fire of such things as those he had undergone, tempers the iron into steel, and makes it harder for ever. But at the same time there was the aspect of hope renewed in his countenance, there was an expression of expectation and confidence, and though he had been made aware of the nature of his father's will, he looked up with a smile on seeing the door open, thinking to take Mr. Driesen by the hand with pleasure. It was not that gentleman, however, who entered, but the landlord of the Falcon himself, who closed the door carefully behind him, and advanced with a low bow and a respectful air. "I have had both your notes taken, sir," he said; "one to the governor of the prison, and the other to Harbury Park, by two boys, that nobody would know as coming from here; but as you were good enough to tell me, Sir Charles your intention, of remaining here until you give yourself up again at the trial, I cannot help letting you know directly, for fear of anything going amiss, something that came to my hearing, and which may be of very great importance to you, if you can but get at the truth of it." "What is it, landlord?" said Charles Tyrrell, "I shall be very much obliged to you for any information; for although I trust I can, without doubt, now prove, both how the blood came upon my coat, and where I was during the whole period of my absence from the house; so that of my acquittal, there cannot be the slightest doubt, yet I shall never rest satisfied, I shall never know a moment's real and complete peace, till I have, discovered and shown forth in the eyes of the whole world, whose was the hand that really killed my unfortunate father."