I had been at Bristol in the summer looking for work, and then I had a notion that I might get something at Portsmouth, for I was trained as a skilled mechanic, so I came tramping my way across the south of England, and doing odd jobs as I went. I was trying all I knew to keep off the cross, for I had done a year in Exeter Gaol, and I had had enough of visiting Queen Victoria. But it’s cruel hard to get work when once the black mark is against your name, and it was all I could do to keep soul and body together. At last, after ten days of wood-cutting and stone-breaking on starvation pay, I found myself near Salisbury with a couple of shillings in my pocket, and my boots and my patience clean wore out. There’s an ale-house called “The Willing Mind,” which stands on the road between Blandford and Salisbury, and it was there that night I engaged a bed. I was sitting alone in the tap-room just about closing time, when the innkeeper—Allen his name was—came beside me and began yarning about the neighbours. He was a man that liked to talk and to have some one to listen to his talk, so I sat there smoking and drinking a mug of ale which he had stood me; and I took no great interest in what he said until he began to talk (as the devil would have it) about the riches of Mannering Hall. “Meaning the large house on the right before I came to the village?” said I. “The one that stands in its own park?” “Exactly,” said he—and I am giving all our talk so that you may know that I am telling you the truth and hiding nothing. “The long white house with the pillars,” said he. “At the side of the Blandford Road.” Now I had looked at it as I passed, and it had crossed my mind, as such thoughts will, that it was a very easy house to get into with that great row of ground windows and glass doors. I had put the thought away from me, and now here was this landlord bringing it back with his talk about the riches within. I said nothing, but I listened, and as luck would have it, he would always come back to this one subject. “He was a miser young, so you can think what he is now in his age,” said he. “Well, he’s had some good out of his money.” “What good can he have had if he does not spend it?” said I. “Well, it bought him the prettiest wife in England, and that was some good that he got out of it. She thought she would have the spending of it, but she knows the difference now.” “Who was she then?” I asked, just for the sake of something to say.