A month later, a parcel came from New York for Woolly Billy, containing an air-gun, and a toy steam-engine that would really go. But it contained no address. And Brine's Rip said that Tug Blackstock had been bested for once, because he never succeeded in finding out who burnt down the mills. VI. The Man with the Dancing Bear I One day there arrived at Brine's Rip Mills, driving in a smart trap which looked peculiarly unsuited to the rough backwoods roads, an imposing gentleman who wore a dark green Homburg hat, heavy, tan, gauntletted gloves, immaculate linen, shining boots, and a well-fitting morning suit of dark pepper-and-salt, protected from the contaminations of travel by a long, fawn-coloured dust-coat. He also wore a monocle so securely screwed into his left eye that it looked as if it had been born there. His red and black wheels labouring noiselessly through the sawdust of the village road, he drove up to the front door of the barn-like wooden structure, which staggered under the name, in huge letters, of the CONTINENTAL HOTEL. There was no one in sight to hold the horse, so he sat in the trap and waited, with severe impatience, for some one to come out to him. In a few moments the landlord strolled forth in his shirt-sleeves, chewing tobacco, and inquired casually what he could do for his visitor. "I'm looking for Mr. Blackstock--Mr. J. T. Blackstock," said the stranger with lofty politeness. "Will you be so good as to direct me to him?" The landlord spat thoughtfully into the sawdust, to show that he was not unduly impressed by the stranger's appearance. "You'll find him down to the furder end of the cross street yonder," he answered pointing with his thumb. "Last house towards the river. Lives with old Mrs. Amos--him an' Woolly Billy." The stranger found it without difficulty, and halted his trap in front of the door. Before he could alight, a tall, rather gaunt woodsman, with kind but piercing eyes and brows knitted in an habitual concentration, appeared in the doorway and gave him courteous greeting. "Mr. Blackstock, I presume? The Deputy Sheriff, I should say," returned the stranger with extreme affability, descending from the trap. "The same," assented Blackstock, stepping forward to hitch the horse to a fence post. A big black dog came from the house and, ignoring the resplendent stranger, went up to Blackstock's side to superintend the hitching. A slender little boy, with big china-blue eyes and a shock of pale, flaxen curls, followed the dog from the house and stopped to stare at the visitor. The latter swept the child with a glance of scrutiny, swift and intent, then turned to his host.