Ethel's work was arrested too. She gazed at John Bent, a raisin in one hand, a stone in the other. That any man could be so fickle-hearted as this, she had not believed. "I knew the tale was going about," said the landlord; "I heard it talked of in Stilborough last market day, Miss Ethel. Any way, true or untrue, they say he is a good deal over at the Mountsorrels, and----" John Bent brought his words to a standstill; rose, and laid down his newspaper. There had entered a rather peculiar looking elderly gentleman, tall and upright yet, with a stout walking stick in his hand. He wore a long blue coat with wide skirts and brass buttons, drab breeches and top boots. His hair was long and snow white, his dark eyes were fiery. Taking off his broad-brimmed hat with old fashioned courtesy, he looked round the room, particularly at Mrs. Bent and Ethel stoning the raisins. It is just possible he mistook the latter for a daughter of the house, dressed in her Sunday best. "This is the Dolphin, I think!" he cried dubiously. "At your service, sir," said John. "Ay, I thought so. But the door seems altered. Its a good many years since I was here. Oh--ay,--I see. Front door on the other side. And you are its landlord--John Bent." "Well, sir, I used to be." "Just so. We shall do. I have walked over from Stilborough to see you. I want to know the truth of this dreadful report--that has but now reached my ears." "The report, sir?" returned John--and it was perhaps natural that he should have his head filled at the moment with Mr. Blake-Gordon and the report touching him. "I believe I don't know anything about it." "Not know anything about it! But I am told that you know all about it. Come!" Ethel was rubbing her hands on Mrs. Bent's cloth preparatory to drawing on her gloves to depart. To help stone raisins in private at the inn was one thing; to help when visitors came in was a different thing altogether. John Bent, looked back at the stranger. "Perhaps we are at cross-purposes, sir. If you will tell me what you mean, I may be able to answer you." "Him that I would ask about is the son of the friend of my early days, Basil the Careless. Young Anthony Castlemaine." The change of ideas from Mr. Blake-Gordon to the unfortunate Anthony was sudden: John Bent gave a groan, and coughed it down. The gentleman resumed, after turning to look at Ethel as she went out. "Is it true that he, Basil Castlemaine's son, came over the seas to this place a month or two ago?--and took up his abode at this inn?--and put in a claim to his grandfather's estate, Greylands' Rest? Is that true?" "Yes, sir." "And where is he, this young Anthony?" "I don't know, sir. I wish I did know." "Is it true that he disappeared in some singular way one night--and that he has never since been seen or heard of?" "That's true, sir--more's the pity." The questioner took a step nearer John Bent, and dropped his voice to a low, solemn key.