A minute or two later the old dog, who lived mysteriously in the back premises, barked, and presently the servant announced that a gentleman was desirous of speaking to the rector. There were not many gentlemen within a day's walk of the rectory. Some one must have put up at “The Black Sailor.” Theoretically, the rector was at the call of any of his parishioners at all moments; but in practice the people of Farlingford never sought his help. “A gentleman,” said Marvin, vaguely; “well, let him come in, Sarah.” Miriam and Barebone sat silently looking at the door. But the man who appeared there was not Dormer Colville. It was John Turner. He evinced no surprise on seeing Barebone, but shook hands with him with a little nod of the head, which somehow indicated that they had business together. He accepted the chair brought forward by Marvin and warmed his hands at the fire, in no hurry, it would appear, to state the reason for this unceremonious call. After all, Marvin was his oldest friend and Miriam his ward. Between old friends, explanations are often better omitted. “It is many years,” he said, at length, “since I heard their talk. They speak with their tongues and their teeth, but not their lips.” “And their throats,” put in Marvin, eagerly. “That is because they are of Teuton descent. So different from the French, eh, Turner?” Turner nodded a placid acquiescence. Then he turned, as far, it would appear, as the thickness of his neck allowed, toward Barebone. “Saw in a French paper,” he said, “that the 'Petite Jeanne' had put in to Lowestoft, to replace a dinghy lost at sea. So I put two and two together. It is my business putting two and two together, and making five of them when I can, but they generally make four. I thought I should find you here.” Loo made no answer. He had only seen John Turner once in his life--for a short hour, in a room full of people, at Royan. The banker stared straight in front of him for a few moments. Then he raised his sleepy little eyes directly to Miriam's face. He heaved a sigh, and fell to studying the burning logs again. And the colour slowly rose to Miriam's cheeks. The banker, it seemed, was about his business again, in one of those simple addition sums, which he sometimes solved correctly. “To you,” he said, after a moment's pause, with a glance in Loo's direction, “to you, it must appear that I am interfering in what is not my own business. You are wrong there.” He had clasped his hands across his abnormal waistcoat, and he half closed his eyes as he blinked at the fire.