“After me?” Notwithstanding his bad ankle, Pasco started back. Had his face not been in shadow, the landlord might have observed how pale he had become. “What! come from Coombe?” he asked in a faltering voice. “Hardly that, master,” answered the landlord. “Not likely _that_ when you be come from there. No, o’ course, came t’other road. He asked about you at Brimpts, and then drove on. He’s purposing to sleep the night here, and was intending to push on to Coombe to-morrow. He’s ordered some supper, and my old woman ha’ done him a couple of rashers and some eggs. Have you a mind to join him?” “But who is he? What does he want?” Pasco was still uneasy. “A sort of a lawyer chap.” “A lawyer?” Pepperill hobbled to his trap. “I’ll push on, thank ye, I’ll not stay.” “Nay, you’d better. I hold wi’ you, master, that it is best in general to give clear room to lawyers. But this time I don’t think but you’d safest come in. He’ll do you no hurt, and maybe he brings you good, Mr. Pepperill.” “I’ll go on,” said Pasco decidedly. “I hate all lawyers as I do ravens.” “Halloo! What is this?” A gentleman put his head out of the bar parlour window, which was open. “Who is it that hates lawyers? Not Mr. Pepperill?” Pasco attempted to scramble into his trap. “Is that Mr. Pepperill, of Coombe Cellars? You must stay. I have a word to speak with you.” “I won’t stay—not a minute.” “I’ll not charge you six-and-eight. Yet it is something to your advantage. I’m Mr. James Squire, solicitor, Tavistock. I have come about your affairs. Your old uncle, Sampson Blunt, is dead—died of a stroke—sudden—and you come in for everything. What say you now? Will you stay? Will you put up your horse? Will you come in and have some of my rasher and eggs? I’m drinking stout—what will you take? You won’t drive any farther to-night, I presume? Sampson has died worth something like three thousand pounds; and every penny comes to you, except what Government claims as pickings—probate duty, you understand.” “Three thousand pounds?” gasped Pasco. “Ay, not a guinea under, and it may be more. His affairs haven’t been properly looked into yet. I came off post-haste, took a chaise from Tavistock, didn’t think to meet you. Was coming on to-morrow. An apoplectic stroke. No children, no one else to inherit but yourself, the only heir-at-law. Now, then, what do you say? Rum and milk, they tell me, is the moor tipple, but I go in for stout.” With glazed eyes and open mouth stood Pasco Pepperill, his hands fallen at his side; he seemed as though he had been paralysed. “Three thousand five hundred—there’s no saying,” continued Mr. Squire, through the window. “Look sharp, come in, or the rashers and eggs will be cold. I asked for a chop. Couldn’t have it. Pleaded for a steak. No good. No butchers on the moor. So ham and eggs, and ham salt as brine. Never mind—drink more. Come in.” Then the head of the lawyer disappeared behind the blind, and the click of his knife and fork was audible.