One great house, of which the chimneys rose in the midst of trees, and which was to be approached by a driveway of some hundreds of yards from a gate and lodge at the roadside, held Everell’s attention for a moment. The guide volunteered the information that this was Thornby Hall. Everell repeated the name carelessly, looked a second time, and thought no more of it. Had he been able to foresee the future, he would have given the place a longer inspection. Two or three miles more brought them to a village. The guide said that here was the only public-house of entertainment in the near neighbourhood, and that if he went farther he was in danger of getting benighted on his return. Nothing could have suited Everell’s own plan better than this clear hint. He dissembled his content, however, and put on a frown of disappointment as he gazed at the mere ale-house—a low and longish building whose unevenness of line betokened its antiquity—before which the boy had drawn up. Everell feigned a reluctant yielding to necessity; dismounted peevishly, and showed a petulant resignation in asking the rustic-looking landlord who appeared at the door if a decent room was to be had for the night. The landlord, a drowsy little old man, who was too dull, too humble-minded, or too philosophical to resent any doubt of the excellence of his house, replied that the best room was at his honour’s service. Whereupon Everell, for the hearing of his guide, inquired urgently about the possibility of getting a horse in the morning to carry him to Burndale. Being assured on this point, also, Everell dismissed the guide, and had his single piece of baggage taken into his room, which proved to be not merely the best room, but the only room, properly so-called, in addition to the long apartment which served as kitchen, bar, living-room of the family, and general clubroom of the village; the chambers up-stairs being mere lofts under the roof.