Now it occurred to him that upon that single night only of his arrival had he enjoyed immunity from this shadowy sense of unseen company in his room; and he could not fail to remember that upon that occasion alone had the shutters of the broad window been closed and fastened. Ever since, by his own order, had they remained open. Moreover, as was his custom, he slept with a lattice flung wide to the inpour of fresh cold air. Certainly to assume that any midnight visitor could have taken advantage of this so far as to enter, by way of ladder or creeper, and prowl about his chamber without immediately awakening him, seemed a ridiculous supposition. Yet, as a wise man, it would perhaps be as well for the future to obviate, by closing the shutters, the necessity of suffering an apprehension so far-fetched. “Whimple,” said he, as the man brought the bucket wearily back to the well-side--“why, when I first came, did you so protest against my flinging open the shutters of my bedroom?” The servant hesitated, then stammered: “I--I thought it wisest, sir. The--the house is lonely, and the neighbourhood harbours some rogues, I fear.” “Such as him you are on speaking terms with? Well, I have altered my mind. For the future, close them--you understand?” For the life of him he could not treat the man with even an assumption of confidence. He would have thought the revocation of his order received with unmistakable relief, had he not been so steeped in suspicion of all things. He was bending to his work again, when a voice hailing him from over the garden hedge made him start and turn round. “Hi! Are you Squire Tuke?” “At your service,” said he, and went forward. A little man seated on a great horse was there in the drive--a pert cocksparrow knowingly-attired and bristling with pride of raiment. He had a comical small face, very pale, and his hat was of the last-approved shade of grey, with a broad ribbon of black and a broader buckle about it. He looked a mere handy-dandy snip; though he had in fact at that time come of age some five years; but his whimsical self-sufficiency not the fly on the bull’s horn could have outdone. He raised his hat in a very courtly manner as the other approached. “I have to apologize,” he said, “for this unceremonious greetin’.” His voice was high and restive, as if it were not yet quite broken in. “By no means,” said Mr. Tuke. “You are Sir David Blythewood, I presume?” The manling had by this time dismounted. He reached a hand over the hedge--a little gloved paw, small as a girl’s--and offered it in grasp to the gentleman. “I ask the honour of your acquaintance,” said he. “My sister owes her life to you, I hear. ’Twas an admirable rescue, and more than her deserts.” He grinned all over his little face.