"Tush!" said John, doing as he was bid, nevertheless. "A chop and a potato: that's as much as most of these chance travellers want." "Not when they are from over the water. I don't forget the last foreign Frenchman that put up here. Fifteen dishes he wanted for his dinner, if he wanted one. And all of 'em dabs and messes." She had gone to carry away her shrimps when the stranger came down. He walked direct into the room, and looked from the open door. The landlord stood up. "You are Thomas Bent, I think," said the stranger, turning round. "John Bent, sir. My father was Thomas Bent, and he has been dead many a year." "And this is your good wife?" he added, as the landlady came bustling in. "Mistress of the inn." "And master too," muttered John, in an undertone. "I was about to order dinner, Mr. Bent----" "Then you'd better order it of me, sir," put in the landlady. "His head's no better than a sieve if it has much to carry. Ask for spinach and cauliflower, and you'd get served up carrots and turnips." "Then I cannot do better than leave my dinner to you, madam," said the young man with a pleasant laugh. "I should like some fish out of that glorious sea; and the rest I leave to you. Can I have an English plum-pudding? "An English plum-pudding! Good gracious, sir, it could not be made and boiled!" "That will do for to-morrow, then." Mrs. Bent departed, calling to Molly as she went. The inn kept but two servants; Molly, and a man; the latter chiefly attending to out-of-door things: horses, pigs and such like. When further help was needed indoors, it could be had from the village. "This must be a healthy spot," remarked the stranger, taking a chair without ceremony at John Bent's fire. "It is very open." "Uncommon healthy, sir. A bit bleak in winter, when the wind's in the east; as it is to-day." "Have you many good families residing about?" "Only one, sir. The Castlemaines?" "The Castlemaines?" "An old family who have lived here for many a year. You'd pass their place, sir, not long before getting out here; a house of greystone on your left hand. It is called Greylands' Rest." "I have heard of Greylands' Rest--and also of the Castlemaines. It belonged, I think, to old Anthony Castlemaine." "It did, sir. His son has it now." "I fancied he had more than one son." "He had three, sir. The eldest, Mr. Basil, went abroad and never was heard of after: leastways, nothing direct from him. The second, Mr. James, has Greylands' Rest. He always lived there with his father, and he lives there still--master of all since the old gentleman died." "How did it come to him?" asked the stranger, hastily. "By will?" "Ah, sir, that's what no soul can tell. All sorts of surmises went about; but nobody knows how it was." A pause. "And the third son? Where is he?" "The third's Mr. Peter. He is a banker at Stilborough." "Is he rich?"