They did not talk much; indeed there was very little conversation. What there was Callan supplied. He--spoke--very--slowly--and--very --authoritatively, like a great actor whose aim is to hold the stage as long as possible. The raising of his heavy eyelids at the opening door conveyed the impression of a dark, mental weariness; and seemed somehow to give additional length to his white nose. His short, brown beard was getting very grey, I thought. With his lofty forehead and with his superior, yet propitiatory smile, I was of course familiar. Indeed one saw them on posters in the street. The notables did not want to talk. They wanted to be spell-bound--and they were. Callan sat there in an appropriate attitude--the one in which he was always photographed. One hand supported his head, the other toyed with his watch-chain. His face was uniformly solemn, but his eyes were disconcertingly furtive. He cross-questioned me as to my walk from Canterbury; remarked that the cathedral was a--magnificent--Gothic--Monument and set me right as to the lie of the roads. He seemed pleased to find that I remembered very little of what I ought to have noticed on the way. It gave him an opportunity for the display of his local erudition. "A--remarkable woman--used--to--live--in--the--cottage--next--the--mill--at--Stelling," he said; "she was the original of Kate Wingfield." "In your 'Boldero?'" the chorus chorussed. Remembrance of the common at Stelling--of the glimmering white faces of the shadowy cottages--was like a cold waft of mist to me. I forgot to say "Indeed!" "She was--a very--remarkable--woman--She----" I found myself wondering which was real; the common with its misty hedges and the blurred moon; or this room with its ranks of uniformly bound books and its bust of the great man that threw a portentous shadow upward from its pedestal behind the lamp. Before I had entirely recovered myself, the notables were departing to catch the last train. I was left alone with Callan. He did not trouble to resume his attitude for me, and when he did speak, spoke faster. "Interesting man, Mr. Jinks?" he said; "you recognised him?" "No," I said; "I don't think I ever met him." Callan looked annoyed. "I thought I'd got him pretty well. He's Hector Steele. In my 'Blanfield,'" he added. "Indeed!" I said. I had never been able to read "Blanfield." "Indeed, ah, yes--of course." There was an awkward pause. "The whiskey will be here in a minute," he said, suddenly. "I don't have it in when Whatnot's here. He's the Rector, you know; a great temperance man. When we've had a--a modest quencher--we'll get to business." "Oh," I said, "your letters really meant--" "Of course," he answered. "Oh, here's the whiskey. Well now, Fox was down here the other night. You know Fox, of course?" "Didn't he start the rag called--?"