He found a single passenger—a slim, discreet-looking man of less than medium height, with a smallish brown face beginning to wrinkle, a sharp nose and chin, a curious appearance of huddling himself together so as not to fill much space, and lead-coloured eyes that lifted their gaze without haste from their owner’s plate and rested intently for a moment upon Thornby. The eyes were then deferentially lowered. The man was decently dressed in brown and gray, and wore a wig of the latter colour. The Squire set him down as a tradesman in comfortable circumstances, or perhaps an attorney or attorney’s clerk, and a civil sort of fellow who knew how to drop his glance in the presence of his betters. “Good day, friend,” began the Squire. “You arrived by the stage-coach from the North, I take it.” “Yes, sir,” replied the other, briefly, but civilly. “Travelled far?” pursued Thornby. “From Edinburgh, though not all the way by that coach. And previous thereto, from Inverness-shire.” “You’re not a Scotchman, though?” “Oh, no, sir; not me, sir. Not so bad as that. I was with the Duke’s army in Scotland.” “Oh, then, you helped to put down the rebellion?” said the Squire. “In my humble capacity, sir. I was waiting-gentleman to an officer, sir.” (“A mighty worthy fellow,” thought the Squire, while the stranger paused in his talk to dispose of a large mouthful of meat. “He might pass for a shopkeeper or a quill-driver, yet he owns at once to being a servant—though for my part, I don’t see why a gentleman’s valet shouldn’t rank above a rascal clerk or tradesman any day—he certainly sees better society.”) “I did my small share of fighting,” continued the worthy fellow; “was wounded, sir, which is the reason I’m now going home to London.” He put back one side of his wig, and disclosed an ear minus a good portion of its rim. Though he gave no further information on the point, and showed no sign of deafness, it was to be assumed that some internal injury had been caused, for it was difficult to see how the mere mutilation of the ear, damaging as it was to the man’s appearance, could be held sufficient reason for his retirement from service. “Your health, sir,” said the man, raising a pot of ale to his lips. “Thankye,—thankye, my good man,” said the Squire, approvingly. “You live in these parts, sir, may I be so bold to ask?” said the good man, with a deferential mildness, having swallowed a great part of the contents of the pot. “Yes, certainly. Why d’ye ask?” “Because in that case you might be able, and so condescending, to direct me to a person I’m wishing to pay my respects to,—a gentleman of the name of Foxwell.” “Foxwell! What do you want of him?” The abruptness of the Squire’s speech, and the sudden clouding of his brow, would have attracted anybody’s notice, and were not lost on the man whose request had caused them.