“Rely on it, Sam,” he said, gravely, “this is no whim of mine. I am not a man to be blown here and there for nothing. I have happened on something here in Sussex that has made me drop anchor and bide my time.” “And should I return to London before you?” “Know nothing about me, and I will thank you.” “So be it, John; I will keep my tongue quiet, though I trust you are not for meddling in any mischievous plot.” “I have no finger in any plot, Sam; that is the plain truth.” And though Mr. Pepys looked mystified, and even helplessly inquisitive despite his self-restraint, he made the best of the business as far as his own plans were concerned, and said no more either one way or the other. He was greatly cheered and comforted next morning by a piece of news that he had from one of my Lord Montague’s men. Dr. William Watson, the Dean of Battle, was riding down to Chichester next day with two armed servants who knew the road. Mr. Pepys went instantly to call upon the churchman, and proved himself so amiable and engaging a soul that they were soon agreed as to the advantages of their taking the road together. And so they set out for Lewes on a fine October morning, bobbed to most respectfully by all the old dames and children of the place, and talking perhaps less of salvation than of Cambridge dinners and of wine and the wit that was to be had in college halls. For Dean Watson was an old St. John’s man, and had drunk of other things besides the classics. John Gore, left to himself in Battle Town, spent the day in riding over the Sussex hills, probing the tracks and woodways on the side toward Thorn. He had done much meditating since that dawn amid the beech-trees, and his suspicions, such as they were, importuned him to satisfy his curiosity with regard to Thorn. For he had only his surmises and the strange coincidences of the affair to launch him on such a fool’s adventure. He rode back to Battle soon after noon, with his horse muddy and his face warm with a blustering wind. And being minded to learn what he could in the matter of gossip and common report, he went, after dinner, into the public parlor of the inn and sat down on a settle near the window. A little round man and a great gaunt farmer were drinking and smoking opposite each other in the ingle-nook, and John Gore pulled out his pipe, for gossip’s sake, and smoked himself into the pair’s good graces.