Mr. Tuke returned to his house, in a pleasantly preoccupied frame of mind. He was both cheered and amused over the meeting with his lively neighbour, and promised himself a substantial dividend of fun out of that investment in the other’s friendship. He called to Whimple, as he passed, that he should need him no longer, and so went by to his front door, and, on the threshold, met Darda. At once, some impulse of the moment drove him to look full in her face and to say: “What is the Lake of Wine?” The girl backed from him, and stared a breathless instant with round eyes of wonder. Then she gave a small soft laugh, and, twining her fingers together, set her lips chilly like frosted rosebuds shrunk from opening to a north-easter. “Darda,” he said, “will you not tell me? I think you don’t know what is the Lake of Wine, or where it is?” “I know--I know!” she cried suddenly--“but what have you done that I should tell you?”--and, with a changeling screech, she sprang past him and vanished up the drive. CHAPTER XI. “A man to see you, sir.” “His name?” “’Tis Richard Breeds, sir, of the ‘Dog and Duck.’” “Breeds?” “The landlord, sir.” “What does he want?” For answer, Dennis wriggled his shoulders, with a scared look. “You don’t know, of course. Tell him to wait me in the hall.” A few minutes later Mr. Tuke descended the stairs, and, happening to be in slippered feet, walked without sound in search of his visitor, whom, curiously, he came upon comprehensively examining the fastenings of the oaken shutters, his bullet-head bent low. At a cough the man started erect, and, gasping with embarrassment, ducked an awkward bow to the master of the house. “They are of good, tough wrought-iron,” said the latter grimly. “So I see, sir. I was takin’ a hint for my own little place with all respect. I’m lonely situated, too.” He lied, of course, with scarcely professional ease. He was a short, fleshy man, with an unwholesome damp skin like veal, and rum-buds over his face in patches, as if he were stricken with a plague--which, indeed, he was, of a bibulous order. His manner was very nervous and self-depreciatory, and the only accent of character that marked his tumid physiognomy was in the expression of his ratty and restless little eyes. Mr. Tuke took his measure during a moment of silence that was obviously disconcerting to him. “Now, sir,” said the first, at length. “What is your business?” “I called, your honour, to axe if I could supply your honour with liquor, milk, eggs and garden produce. I keep the ‘Dog and Duck’ on the Stockbridge road, and maybe, I thought, ’twould be handier to your honour and more reasonable-like to deal at a half-way house.” “That depends. I leave these matters to my servant, who does his catering, I believe, in the village. I know your house of call, and have marked one or two of the visitors you entertain.”