The Professor lunched with keen enjoyment. His adventure was giving him an appetite. In spite of the amount of travelling which he had done during the last couple of days he felt thoroughly fit and well, much better than he had during the winter in town. The menace which had been revealed to him seemed far away to him in this peaceful spot, it almost seemed to him as though the whole of his discoveries had been merely some impossible dream, the penalty of overwork, and that the fresh country air, tinged with the faintly salt tang of the sea, had swept it from his brain into the realms of the unreal. Perhaps, after all, he was entirely wrong in his deductions. Those mysterious murders in Praed Street might have been the result of some entirely different influence. He had merely conjecture to guide him: somehow, now he had reached the place where alone the corroborative facts could be gathered, it seemed as though his actions and his fears were the effect of a sudden and unaccountable impulse. He wandered from the luncheon room past the little saloon bar, and glanced in at the open door. The place was empty; it was past two o’clock, and the local habitués had returned to their labours. It was too early in the year for visitors. The Professor walked into the bar, and took a seat by the side of the counter. The proprietor, who was serving a few belated customers in the tap-room, came in at the sound of the Professor’s entrance, and greeted him with professional courtesy. “Good afternoon, Mr. Deacon,” he said cheerfully. (Deacon was the name which the Professor had inscribed in the hotel register—it said much for the proprietor’s skill that he had deciphered it correctly.) “I hope you found your room to your liking, and enjoyed your lunch?” “Yes, thank you,” replied the Professor. “I think I shall be very comfortable here for a day or two. I looked in here to ask you for a liqueur after my lunch. Perhaps you will join me in one?” “Liqueurs ain’t much in my line, thankee, sir,” replied the landlord. “But I’ll take a drop o’ gin with you, since you’re so kind. What’ll be yours, sir? I’ve got Benedictine, Crème de Menthe——” “I should prefer some old brandy, if you have it,” interrupted the Professor. “Ah, you know a thing or two, Mr. Deacon, I can see that,” replied the landlord with a knowing wink. “I’ve got a rare drop of brandy put away in the cellar. I never had only six bottles of it, and there’s still four left. My customers don’t hardly ever ask for it, it’s mostly beer or whiskey with them. Unless it happens to be a gentleman from London like yourself, sir.” He disappeared, and returned in a few moments with a long-necked bottle, from which he poured a glass of pale amber liquid. “There, just try that, sir,” he exclaimed proudly.