I was very hungry, and accepted the hospitality in spite of the churlish tone in which it was offered. The farmer’s wife and his two daughters came into the sitting-room during the meal, and I was aware of a certain curiosity with which they regarded me. It may have been that a young man was a rarity in this wilderness, or it may be that my attempts at conversation won their goodwill, but they all three showed a kindliness in their manner. It was getting dark, so I remarked that it was time for me to be pushing on to Greta House. “You’ve made up your mind to go, then?” said the older woman. “Certainly. I have come all the way from London.” “There’s no one hindering you from going back there.” “But I have come to see Mr. Maple, my uncle.” “Oh, well, no one can stop you if you want to go on,” said the woman, and became silent as her husband entered the room. With every fresh incident I felt that I was moving in an atmosphere of mystery and peril, and yet it was all so intangible and so vague that I could not guess where my danger lay. I should have asked the farmer’s wife point-blank, but her surly husband seemed to divine the sympathy which she felt for me, and never again left us together. “It’s time you were going, mister,” said he at last, as his wife lit the lamp upon the table. “Is the trap ready?” “You’ll need no trap. You’ll walk,” said he. “How shall I know the way?” “William will go with you.” William was the youth who had driven me up from the station. He was waiting at the door, and he shouldered my gun-case and bag. I stayed behind to thank the farmer for his hospitality, but he would have none of it. “I ask no thanks from Mr. Stephen Maple nor any friend of his,” said he, bluntly. “I am paid for what I do. If I was not paid I would not do it. Go your way, young man, and say no more.” He turned rudely on his heel and re-entered his house, slamming the door behind him.