The men began to drop out, with a brief good-night. It was a minute to ten. The landlady rose. “Come,” she said. “I’m shutting the door.” The last of the miners passed out. She stood, stout and menacing, holding the door. Still the stranger sat on by the fire, his black overcoat opened, smoking. “We’re closed now, sir,” came the perilous, narrowed voice of the landlady. The little, dog-like, hard-headed sergeant touched the arm of the stranger. “Closing time,” he said. The stranger turned round in his seat, and his quick-moving, dark, jewel-like eyes went from the sergeant to the landlady. “I’m stopping here tonight,” he said, in his laconic Cornish-Yankee accent. The landlady seemed to tower. Her eyes lifted strangely, frightening. “Oh! indeed!” she cried.” Oh, indeed! And whose orders are those, may I ask?” He looked at her again. “My orders,” he said. Involuntarily she shut the door, and advanced like a great, dangerous bird. Her voice rose, there was a touch of hoarseness in it. “And what might _your_ orders be, if you please?” she cried. “Who might _you_ be, to give orders, in the house?” He sat still, watching her. “You know who I am,” he said. “At least, I know who you are.” “Oh, you do? Oh, do you? And who am _I_ then, if you’ll be so good as to tell me?” He stared at her with his bright, dark eyes. “You’re my Missis, you are,” he said. “And you know it, as well as I do.” She started as if something had exploded in her. Her eyes lifted and flared madly. “_Do_ I know it, indeed!” she cried. “I know no such thing! I know no such thing! Do you think a man’s going to walk into this bar, and tell me off-hand I’m his Missis, and I’m going to believe him?—I say to you, whoever you may be, you’re mistaken. I know myself for no Missis of yours, and I’ll thank you to go out of this house, this minute, before I get those that will put you out.” The man rose to his feet, stretching his head towards her a little. He was a handsomely built Cornishman in the prime of life. “What you say, eh? You don’t know me?” he said, in his singsong voice, emotionless, but rather smothered and pressing: it reminded one of the girl’s. “I should know you anywhere, you see. I should! I shouldn’t have to look twice to know you, you see. You see, now, don’t you?” The woman was baffled. “So you may say,” she replied, staccato. “So you may say. That’s easy enough. My name’s known, and respected, by most people for ten miles round. But I don’t know _you_.” Her voice ran to sarcasm. “I can’t say I know _you_. You’re a _perfect_ stranger to me, and I don’t believe I’ve ever set eyes on you before tonight.” Her voice was very flexible and sarcastic. “Yes, you have,” replied the man, in his reasonable way.” Yes, you have. Your name’s my name, and that girl Maryann is my girl; she’s my daughter. You’re my Missis right enough. As sure as I’m Willie Nankervis.”