“Now, what is the riddle?” he muttered. “Our effectless friend can find the means to a little barter on his own account, it seems. But where is in all the house to tempt his honesty? Well, forewarned is forearmed; and there is an end of the reaction in your favour, Mr. Dennis.” He left the wood by and by, and made for the house, lost in speculation. For the present he was resolved to allude in no way to the interview he had been witness of; and to alter no whit of his manner towards his servant. So should he be clad in double proof who keeps secret his discovery of his enemy’s ambush. Despite the decision, however, he found it no light matter to give to his consideration for his dependent that air of spontaneity he had made it his task to exhibit. He could hardly tell if it were his own reawakened suspicions they saw themselves reflected in the man’s face; but--so it seemed to him--the latter was full of a covert significance of guilt and trepidation that was expressed in a certain watchfulness most difficult to ignore. He was sitting, having finished his dinner, deep in thought; when this very fellow entered to say that a man without craved the indulgence of a word with his honour. “A man?--What man?” said Tuke. “He is a stranger to me, sir.” “Did you ask his name--his business?” “No, sir.” “Go and do so, blockhead!”--He lost his patience for a moment; then, recollecting himself, “Tell him to walk in here,” he added more mildly. In response to this amiable permission, an individual, whose wooden face wore the perpetual smile of an “Aunt Sally,” and whose clothes smelt of stables and were mere patched horse-cloths in appearance, advanced to the threshold of the hall, where he stood, after touching his forelock, with an expression on his features of the most engaging vacuity. “Now, my man!” said the baronet; “what is your business?” “I come to enkvire, master, if ye has a gawdner?” “A gardener? No, I have not.” The oddity’s little eyes looked anywhere but at the speaker. He seemed to be joyously calculating the dimensions of the ceiling. “Mebbe ye vants a gawdner?” he said roguishly. “Maybe you want to be engaged? Where do you hail from--any place hereabouts?” “Not I, squeer. I comes fro’ Suth’ampt’n.” “And what are your qualifications?” “I’m Joe Corby.” “What are your qualifications for the post, I say?” “All’s one for that. I’m a gawdner, squeer.” “Do you know a cabbage from a rose?” “Aye; and a spade from a stallion.” Mr. Tuke scanned the fellow in silence for a moment. “And a barrow from a rakehell, I suppose?” said he quietly. “You are too accomplished for me. Whimple, show this person off the premises.” “Meaning I’m to go?” said the man, in a sort of genial surprise. “Certainly. Whimple!”