“And you were all right in Sydney?” “Better in no time—I _know_ she was putting poison in my coffee.” “Hm!” There was a glum silence. The driver stared at the road ahead, fixedly, managing the car as if it were a live thing. The nephew felt that his uncle was afraid, quite stupefied with fear, fear of life, of death, of himself. “You’re in rooms, then?” asked the nephew. “No, I’m in a house of my own,” said the uncle defiantly, “wi’ th’ best little woman in th’ Midlands. She’s a marvel.—Why don’t you come an’ see us?” “I will. Who is she?” “Oh, she’s a good girl—a beautiful little thing. I was clean gone on her first time I saw her. An’ she was on me. Her mother lives with us—respectable girl, none o’ your....” “And how old is she?” “—how old is she?—she’s twenty-one.” “Poor thing.” “_She’s_ right enough.” “You’d marry her—getting a divorce—?” “I shall marry her.” There was a little antagonism between the two men. “Where’s Aunt Maud?” asked the younger. “She’s at the Railway Arms—we passed it, just against Rollin’s Mill Crossing.... They sent me a note this morning to go an’ see her when I can spare time. She’s got consumption.” “Good Lord! Are you going?” “Yes—” But again Berry felt that his uncle was afraid. The young man got through his commission in the village, had a drink with his uncle at the inn, and the two were returning home. The elder man’s subject of conversation was Australia. As they drew near the town they grew silent, thinking both of the public-house. At last they saw the gates of the railway crossing were closed before them. “Shan’t you call?” asked Berry, jerking his head in the direction of the inn, which stood at the corner between two roads, its sign hanging under a bare horse-chestnut tree in front. “I might as well. Come in an’ have a drink,” said the uncle. It had been raining all the morning, so shallow pools of water lay about. A brewer’s wagon, with wet barrels and warm-smelling horses, stood near the door of the inn. Everywhere seemed silent, but for the rattle of trains at the crossing. The two men went uneasily up the steps and into the bar. The place was paddled with wet feet, empty. As the bar-man was heard approaching, the uncle asked, his usual bluster slightly hushed by fear: “What yer goin’ ta have, lad? Same as last time?” A man entered, evidently the proprietor. He was good-looking, with a long, heavy face and quick, dark eyes. His glance at Sutton was swift, a start, a recognition, and a withdrawal, into heavy neutrality. “How are yer, Dan?” he said, scarcely troubling to speak. “Are yer, George?” replied Sutton, hanging back. “My nephew, Dan Berry.—Give us Red Seal, George.” The publican nodded to the younger man, and set the glasses on the bar. He pushed forward the two glasses, then leaned back in the dark corner behind the door, his arms folded, evidently preferring to get back from the watchful eyes of the nephew. “—’s luck,” said Sutton.