He eyed his man expectantly and put his hand to his pocket again, but the innkeeper’s face was troubled, and he gazed stolidly at the fire. “See what fifteen years’ honest, decent life does for us,” grinned the intruder. The other made no reply, but rising slowly, walked to the door without a word. “Landlord,” cried Gunn, bringing his maimed hand sharply down on the table. The innkeeper turned and regarded him. “Send me in some supper,” said Gunn; “the best you have, and plenty of it, and have a room prepared. The best.” The door closed silently, and was opened a little later by the dubious George coming in to set a bountiful repast. Gunn, after cursing him for his slowness and awkwardness, drew his chair to the table and made the meal of one seldom able to satisfy his hunger. He finished at last, and after sitting for some time smoking, with his legs sprawled on the fender, rang for a candle and demanded to be shown to his room. His proceedings when he entered it were but a poor compliment to his host. Not until he had poked and pried into every corner did he close the door. Then, not content with locking it, he tilted a chair beneath the handle, and placing his pistol beneath his pillow, fell fast asleep. Despite his fatigue he was early astir next morning. Breakfast was laid for him in the coffee-room, and his brow darkened. He walked into the hall, and after trying various doors entered a small sitting-room, where his host and daughter sat at breakfast, and with an easy assurance drew a chair to the table. The innkeeper helped him without a word, but the girl’s hand shook under his gaze as she passed him some coffee. “As soft a bed as ever I slept in,” he remarked. “I hope that you slept well,” said the girl, civilly. “Like a child,” said Gunn, gravely; “an easy conscience. Eh, Mullet?” The innkeeper nodded and went on eating. The other, after another remark or two, followed his example, glancing occasionally with warm approval at the beauty of the girl who sat at the head of the table. “A sweet girl,” he remarked, as she withdrew at the end of the meal; “and no mother, I presume?” “No mother,” repeated the other. Gunn sighed and shook his head. “A sad case, truly,” he murmured. “No mother and such a guardian. Poor soul, if she but knew! Well, we must find her a husband.” He looked down as he spoke, and catching sight of his rusty clothes and broken shoes, clapped his hand to his pocket; and with a glance at his host, sallied out to renew his wardrobe. The innkeeper, with an inscrutable face, watched him down the quay, then with bent head he returned to the house and fell to work on his accounts.