Not that he knew the Hammonds yet, or many others, the days which intervened between his induction and the dinner at the Town House being somewhat lonely days, during which he was much thrown back upon himself, and only felt by slow degrees the soothing influence of the routine work of his position. Of his curate, and of him only, he naturally saw much, and found it small comfort to learn from the Reverend Stephen that the fracas with Mr. Bonamy had not escaped the attention of the town, but was being made the subject of comment by many who were delighted to have so novel a subject as the new rector and his probable conduct. He was sitting at breakfast a few days later—on the morning of the Hammonds’ party—when Mrs. Baker announced an early visitor. “No, he is not a gentleman, sir,” she said, “though he has on a black coat. A stranger to the town, I think, but he will not say what he wants, except to see you.” “I will come to him in the study,” replied her master. The housekeeper, however, going out, and taking a second glance at the caller, did not show him into the study, but instead, gave him a seat in the hall on the farther side from the coatstand. There the rector, when he came out, found him—a pale fat-faced man, dressed neatly and decorously, though his clothes were threadbare. He took him into the study, and asked him his business. “But first sit down,” the rector added pleasantly, desiring to set the man at his ease. The stranger sat down gingerly on the edge of a chair. For a moment there was a pause of seeming embarrassment, and then, “I am body-servant, sir,” he said abruptly, passing his tongue across his lips, and looking up furtively to learn the effect of his announcement, “to the Earl of Dynmore.” “Indeed!” the rector replied, with a slight start. “Has Lord Dynmore returned to England, then?” Again the man looked up slyly. “No, sir,” he answered with deliberation, “I cannot say that he has, sir.” “You have brought some letter or message from him, perhaps?” the clergyman hazarded. The stranger seemed to have a difficulty in telling his own story. “No, sir, if you will pardon me, I have come about myself, sir,” the man explained, speaking a little more freely. “I am in a little bit of trouble, and I think you would help me, sir, if you heard the story.” “I am quite willing to hear the story,” said the rector gravely. Looking more closely at the man, he saw that his neatness was only on the surface. His white cravat was creased, and his wrists displayed no linen. An air of seediness marked him in the full light of the windows, and, pale as his face was, it wore here and there a delicate flush. Perhaps the man’s admission that he was in trouble helped the rector to see this.