Now, not the least embarrassing part of the business was that his entrance, with a face set to any contingency, was to all appearance accepted by the company as in the natural order of custom. No one fell awkward over it, or assumed an air as of resenting his presence. He hesitated a moment, then sat himself down in a chair opposite the two men. “A dull evening, gentlemen,” said he; “with promise of a dirty night.” Mr. Fern--by token of his scarlet face--was the one to answer in a high manner of politeness. “The more fortunate we, sir, for being under cover,” he said. One would have taken the persistent strain of speech to account for his apoplectic hue. If he were a rogue, he had none of the melodramatic hall-marks. His face, possibly from its consuming colour, was as expressionless as a brick, and his eyes, under their ragged brows, gleamed like cold and passionless agates. “Fortunate, as you say,” said Mr. Tuke; “the more as it is like to stay midnight skulkers from disturbing the rest of peaceable folk.” “Quite so, quite so, though I don’t trace the connection--eh, Brander?” The sardonic fisherman, his arms folded, had been watching the new-comer from under covert brows. He gave a little contemptuous laugh. “Perhaps the gentleman is a sufferer from nerves,” said he. “No,” said Tuke coolly, “I don’t think I am. I have full confidence in myself and in my defences. It is my way to strike at an annoyance before I examine it, as I would at any unaccustomed beast that ran across my path.” “An excellent principle, sir. Impulse is a much-maligned factor in our system. Second thoughts are second-best thoughts too often. Landlord, is our supper served?” “’Tis on the table, Mr. Fern,” came the answer, somewhere from the darkness of the bar. Both men rose, and Mr. Tuke with them. He felt desperately the utter ineffectiveness of the situation. How could he, on a shadow of circumstantial evidence, throw their presumed roguery in the teeth of a couple of strangers merely because they had put up at a wayside tavern? A sort of dull fury worked in his heart. What had his impulsive visit gained him but present isolation in the midst of a dangerous company? Without, the storm had broken; the slam of thunder shook the lonely house; the lightning fought for mastery in the room with the smoking oil-lamps, and prevailed, painting all faces with a violet glaze. “That man,” said he, pointing at the genial Joseph, and wild to bring an edge to circumstance--“does he sup with you?” “Surely, sir,” said Mr. Fern, pausing with an expression of extreme surprise. “Ah! I recognize him as the fellow who applied to me for the post of gardener. You are well-suited for company, gentlemen.” “He waits on us, sir--he waits on us. Joseph, is this true that I hear--that, unknown to me, you seek another service?” “Yes,” said the man, with a grin. “If I could better myself I would.”