“I dare say, sir--I dare say,” quoth he, in a jerking voice. “And how do that concern me?” “You know best. Maybe you have taken me for one of your pugmill squireens with blinkers to his head. You’d better cleanse your brain on that point. I see and I hear, Mr. Breeds, and I’m dangerous to meddle with. You understand me--yes, you do.” “So help me God, sir, I know nought of any attempt on your house!” “You see? Did I say there had been one? You rogue! I’ve a mind to put a bullet in you now.” The landlord dropped his pipe on the floor, and cried abjectly-- “Sir--Mr. Tuke! In the Lord’s name, what d’ye accuse me of?” “Of nothing, of course. I warn you--that’s enough.” “But, sir----” “Mr. Breeds, Mr. Breeds!”--he shook a threatening finger at him--“let me advise you to take a fair hint and meditate on it. You consort with blackguards, sir; you harbour ruffians. Shall I connect this or not with signs and sounds and visits that have disturbed me of late?” “I am an innkeeper, sir,” said the other sullenly. “I’m not to pick or choose where custom offers. Let the law look after its own. I stand upon my rights.” “Aye, aye; that’s boor’s English for treading on other people’s corns.” He turned to go, daring a retort with the tail of his eye. On the threshold he paused. A sinister little laugh had reached him from the bowels of the house. In a moment he strode back, fierce and lowering. “You have company in the inn now. Where do they sit?” The landlord did not answer; but, in the gathering darkness of the tap, there was a sound as if his teeth chattered. Without another word, Tuke stepped into the passage, and stood listening. All was silent; but somewhere to the rear of the building a thread of light broke the run of the panelling almost from ceiling to floor. For this thread he made, and coming plump against a door, burst it open and half fell into a long dimly-lighted room with a trestle-table set in the middle of it. Recovering himself, he stood at instant guard. The light of a couple of oil-lamps on the wall swam in his eyes and blinded him for a moment. Then his vision cleared, and he saw his company--two men seated at the table, and one who stood by a half-closed door to his left. The room was full of tobacco-smoke, and a reeking smell of warm hollands hung in the air like a sickly dew. “Charge your rummers, gentlemen!” said some one in a thin nasal voice. It was such a queerly weak and ineffective voice, that despite a certain awkwardness in his situation, the intruder could not forbear fixing his eyes on the speaker with a start of wonder. Then he recognized him at once. It was the squab white-haired man, with a face like a hip, whom he had seen at lounge on the window-sill. Him he had expected to find; nor much less the gentleman like a decayed schoolmaster, whom he had happened on a-fishing, and who sat next to the other. “Mr. Joseph Corby should be the third,” thought he; and sure enough it was Joe who stood by the door.