However, at last, one night a party of men with kegs on their shoulders were seen stealing through the park towards the mansion. They were observed also leaving without the kegs. Accordingly, next morning the officer in command called, together with several underlings. He apologized to the baronet for any inconvenience his visit might occasion--he was quite sure that Sir Thomas was ignorant of the use made of his park, his landing-place, even of his house--but there was evidence that “run” goods had been brought to the mansion the preceding night, and it was but the duty of the officer to point this out to Sir Thomas, and ask him to permit a search--which would be conducted with all the delicacy possible. The baronet, an exceedingly urbane man, promptly expressed his readiness to allow house, cellar, attic--every part of his house, and every outbuilding--unreservedly to be searched. He produced his keys. The cellar was, of course, the place where wine and spirits were most likely to be found--let that be explored first. He had a cellar-book, which he produced, and he would be glad if the officer would compare what he found below with his entries in the book. The search was made with some zest, for the Government officers had long looked on Sir Thomas with mistrust; and yet were somewhat disarmed by the frankness with which he met them. They ransacked the mansion from garret to cellar, and every part of the outbuildings, and found nothing. They had omitted to look into the family coach, which was full of rum kegs, so full that, to prevent the springs being broken or showing that the carriage was laden, the axle-trees were “trigged up” below with blocks of wood. When a train of asses or mules conveyed contraband goods along a road, it was often customary to put stockings over the hoofs to deaden the sound of their steps. One night many years ago, a friend of the writer--a parson on the north coast of Cornwall--was walking along a lane in his parish at night. It was near midnight. He had been to see, and had been sitting up with, a dying person. As he came to a branch in the lane he saw a man there, and he called out “Good night.” He then stood still a moment, to consider which lane he should take. Both led to his rectory, but one was somewhat shorter than the other. The shorter was, however, stony and very wet. He chose the longer way, and turned to the right. Thirty years after he was speaking with a parishioner who was ill, when the man said to him suddenly: “Do you remember such and such a night, when you came to the Y? You had been with Nankevill, who was dying.” “Yes, I do recall something about it.” “Do you remember you said ‘Good night’ to me?” “I remember that someone was there; I did not know it was you.” “And you turned right instead of left?” “I dare say.” “If you had taken the left-hand road you would never have seen next morning.” “Why so?”