"Why the matter is this, Sir Charles," said the landlord of the Falcon, "there's old John Smithson, who lives about a mile and a half off, between this and the sea, and whose son is now in jail about that smuggling business, always shakes his head when the people talk about you and the murder of Sir Francis, and has been heard to say, more than once, that the judges should not condemn you for it, that he'd rather die himself. I heard about this yesterday, and I don't know how it was, but as if I had known that you would be coming here tonight, though Heaven knows I knew nothing about it. I couldn't help going down to the old man's cottage, just quietly, not as if I came to inquire, and talking to him about it. I couldn't get him to say much upon the subject, for he had heard that you had got out of prison, and he said, that being the case, it was no matter to anybody. I asked him, however, what he would do, if you should be caught and brought back again. He said, that he would not tell me what he would do; but that they should not hang you, for he would prevent that. I tried, as much as I could, to get something more out of him, but it was all no use. He would not say a word more, and I believe the only way to do with him would be, to call him up upon the trial, and make him give evidence." "Did he know my father at all?" demanded Charles Tyrrell. "Oh, he knew him well enough by sight, sir," replied the man; "for when he was a fisherman, I've heard, he used to supply the family, and was up every day at the house almost; and about three weeks ago, he stopped here one afternoon, to take a glass of grog, and he had seen your father that day about his son; for the old man was in a towering passion, and vowed that Sir Francis had treated him no better than a dog." "Indeed," said Charles Tyrrell, "you don't suppose he could have done it himself." "Why no, sir, I don't mean to say that," replied the landlord. "He's a stout old fellow, too; as young as if there were twenty years off his age, and he has a devil of a spirit of his own. He always had; but then he was always a very honest, upright man; one never heard of his doing any thing that was wrong. Some twenty years ago, indeed, he was taken up upon some smuggling business, and was in prison one day; but he proved that it was all false together, and he caught the customhouse officer some time after, and gave him such a licking that he never went near him again. No, I don't think he did it; but it is clear enough that he knows something about it, and will come forward and say what he does know, if he thinks there's any chance of your being condemned." "Perhaps," said Charles Tyrrell, "it may be better for me to send for him, and speak with him on the matter."