“What can bring people here now?” said Haggerstone, as with his glass to his eye he surveyed the little well-fed figure, who, in his tawdry jacket all slashed with gold, and heavy jack-boots, was closely locked in the embraces of the landlord. Jekyl at once issued forth to learn the news, and, although not fully three minutes absent, returned to his companions with a full account of the expected arrivals. “It's that rich banker, Sir Stafford Onslow, with his family. They were on their way to Italy, and made a mess of it somehow in the Black Forest they got swept away by a torrent, or crushed by an avalanche, or something of the kind, and Sir Stafford was seized with the gout, and so they 've put back, glad even to make such a port as Baden.” “If it's the gout's the matter with him,” said Dalton, “I 've the finest receipt in the world. Take a pint of spirits poteen if you can get it beat up two eggs and a pat of butter in it; throw in a clove of garlic and a few scrapings of horseradish, let it simmer over the fire for a minute or two, stir it with a sprig of rosemary to give it a flavor, and then drink it off.” “Gracious Heaven! what a dose!” exclaimed Jekyl, in horror. “Well, then, I never knew it fail. My father took it for forty years, and there wasn't a haler man in the country. If it was n't that he gave up the horseradish for he did n't like the taste of it he 'd, maybe, be alive at this hour.” “The cure was rather slow of operation,” said Haggerstone, with a sneer. “'Twas only the more like all remedies for Irish grievances, then,” observed Dal ton, and his face grew a shade graver as he spoke. “Who was it this Onslow married?” said the Colonel, turning to Jekyl. “One of the Headworths, I think.” “Ah, to be sure; Lady Hester. She was a handsome woman when I saw her first, but she fell off sadly; and indeed, if she had not, she 'd scarcely have condescended to an alliance with a man in trade, even though he were Sir Gilbert Stafford.” “Sir Gilbert Stafford!” repeated Dalton. “Yes, sir; and now Sir Gilbert Stafford Onslow. He took the name from that estate in Warwickshire; Skepton Park, I believe they call it.” “By my conscience, I wish that was the only thing he took,” ejaculated Dalton, with a degree of fervor that astonished the others, “for he took an elegant estate that belonged by right to my wife. Maybe you have heard tell of Corrig-O'Neal?” Haggerstone shook his head, while with his elbow he nudged his companion, to intimate his total disbelief in the whole narrative. “Surely you must have heard of the murder of Arthur Godfrey, of Corrig-O'Neal; was n't the whole world ringing with it?” Another negative sign answered this appeal. “Well, well, that beats all ever I heard! but so it is, sorrow bit they care in England if we all murdered each other! Arthur Godfrey, as I was saying, was my wife's brother, there were just the two of them, Arthur and Jane; she was my wife.”