The man in the ale-house came forth as Mr. Thornby dismounted, and offered that respectful greeting which the Squire was so conscious of deserving and Jeremiah Filson so capable of bestowing. “Good day, Filson; good day t’ye. I don’t wish to come indoors: we’ll walk to and fro here on the green.—I’ve been anxious to see you, Filson, to know how you’re faring in respect of your Jacobite.” “Poorly, sir, poorly as yet; though I take it most kind of your Worship to be concerned upon the matter.” “Concerned? In course—why the devil not? Ain’t I a magistrate? Didn’t I give you the warrant? D’ye think I dropped the matter there? I’m as keen upon punishing the rebels as any man in England. Once you discover where the fellow is, you’ll see how ready my officers are to help you take him.” Filson was rather surprised at this sudden zeal, for the Squire, after purchasing the Foxwell letter and granting the Everell warrant, had not shown a desire for more of Filson’s society, so that Jeremiah had been forced to curry favour with the justice’s clerk, that he might rely upon the ready coöperation of the legal officers in apprehending the rebel. But he kept his surprise to himself. “I’m quite sure of that, sir. I hope I shall track the man to his cover, with the aid of Providence. I hate to give a thing up, sir, once I’ve set myself to do it. When I start upon a chase, no matter what’s the game, I can’t leave it unfinished, and that’s why I still linger here, though at some little expense to myself. But we act as we’re made; and I’m made like that, your Worship.” “It does you credit, Filson: I like a staying hound. But are you sure, now, the man is still in this neighbourhood?”