He looked about him with intention. Unfenced fields stretched on either side of the road. Every now and again the driver would pull up, stand on the seat, and throw a searching glance around. Then, muttering under his breath words that were certainly strange to that part of the English midlands, he would drive on again, looking to right and left as before. By and by he came to a part of the road where a long wooden fence on the right-hand side indicated an enclosure. To this the driver gave his whole attention, and when the fence was broken by a wide wooden gate, within which a carriage drive ran past a little lodge and between hedges of evergreen, he pulled up, alighted from the cart, and, leading the pony by the nose, went to the gate and gave the bell-pull a vigorous tug. It might have been noticed that he walked a little lame. In response to his summons a man came to the gate—a young man, thin, clean-shaven, with a slight cast in one eye. He was bareheaded, wore a red waistcoat over a flannel shirt, and brown corduroy breeches, supported by a leather belt and somewhat creased above brown leggings. “So!” said the driver of the pony cart, as the lodgekeeper rested his arms on the second bar of the gate and looked at him. “Zis, my goot friend, is Midfont House?” “You’ve got it right, guv’nor.” “So! Zen I ask, is Mr. Thomas Dorrell at home?” “Nice day, guv’nor.” “I zank you, yes, it is not bad. Mr. Thomas Dorrell——” “No; my name’s Timothy Ball—T. B. on my collars.” “I zank you. Mr. Thomas Dorrell——” “This ’ere place belongs to Mr. John Greatorex, Esquire, J.P., and he ain’t at home, bein’ engaged in trying a bad case of stealin’ lamb and mint-sauce not a many miles from ’ere.” “My goot friend, I do not mind; I like it. I come not to see Mr. Greatorex, I come to see Mr. Thomas Dorrell——” “Now, look ’ere, guv’nor, we’ve had chaps ’ere before with cheap watches and dear books and thingummies of all sorts, and I tell you straight, we don’t encourage ’em; in fact, I’ve got strict orders from Mr. Greatorex, J.P., to set the dog on any such that won’t take no for an answer.” “My goot friend, you mistake. Vizout doubt I carry, some days, books, editions de luxe, and vatches and ozer zinks, but to-day—no, no. Look, here is my carte——” “And a rum-lookin’ ramshackle turn-out it is,” quoth Timothy, ignoring the piece of pasteboard and eyeing the vehicle disdainfully. “I wonder you ain’t ashamed to come out in a ‘at like that, togged up to the nines, quite a torf, and your pony as looks as if he ain’t had a currycomb on his hide for a month o’ Sundays.”