‘Yes,’ she said. ‘After all, the horses are the best.’ She sat up in the hammock and called ‘Hetty!’ One of the mares lifted its head, whinnied, and advanced sedately to the hammock. Teresa stroked the creature’s nose. ‘Isn’t she a beauty, Mr. Redgrave? See.’ In an instant Teresa had sprung on the mare’s back, and was cantering, bareback and without bridle, across the meadow. Hetty was evidently docile to the last degree, and could be guided by a touch of the hand on the neck. ‘What do you think of that, Mr. Redgrave?’ asked the girl proudly when she returned. Richard paused. ‘It is as good as Juana,’ he said quietly. ‘I had no idea you were such a performer.’ Teresa flushed as she slipped easily, to the ground. ‘I am not such a performer,’ she stiffly replied. ‘I came to tell you,’ said Richard, ignoring her petulance, ‘that I have to go to a place in the village on some other business for my firm, I will get my lunch at one of the inns, and be back at----’ ‘Now, Mr. Redgrave,’ she interrupted him, ‘don’t be horrid. I have told Bridget to prepare a charming lunch for us at one-fifteen, and at one-fifteen it will be ready. You cannot possibly leave me to eat it alone.’ ‘I can’t,’ he admitted. ‘At one-fifteen I will be here. Thank you for telling Bridget to get something charming.’ He raised his hat and departed. Now, the first dwelling in the village of Hockliffe as you enter it by Watling Street from the south is a small double-fronted house with a small stable at the side thereof. A vast chestnut-tree stands in front of it, and at this point the telegraph-wires, which elsewhere run thickly on both sides of the road, are all carried on the left side, so as not to interfere with the chestnut-tree. Over the front-door of the house, which is set back in a tiny garden, is a sign to this effect: ‘Puddephatt, Wine Merchant.’ Having descried the sign, the observant traveller will probably descry rows of bottles in one of the windows of the house. As Richard sauntered down the road in search of he knew not what, Mr. Puddephatt happened to be leaning over his railings--a large, stout man, dressed in faded gray, with a red, cheerful face and an air of unostentatious prosperity. ‘Morning,’ said Puddephatt. ‘Morning,’ said Richard. ‘Fine morning, said Mr. Puddephatt. Richard accepted the proposition and agreed that it was a fine morning. Then he slackened speed and stopped in front of Mr. Puddephatt. ‘You are Mr. Puddephatt?’ ‘The same, sir.’ ‘I suppose, you haven’t got any Hennessy 1875 in stock?’ ‘Have I any Hennessy 1875 in stock, sir? Yes, I have, sir. Five-and-six a bottle, and there’s no better brandy nowhere.’ ‘I’m not feeling very well,’ said Richard, ‘and I always take Hennessy 1875 when I’m queer, and one can’t often get it at public-houses.’ ‘No, you can’t, sir.’ ‘You don’t hold a retail license?’ Richard asked.