‘Yes, indeed,’ said the curate, and once more there was that in his voice which sounded as if he were shaking his head. ‘Ah, yes,’ he went on, with a laugh, ‘that’s the greatest part of the battle. I never said a wiser thing (if I said it) than that. Solomon himself couldn’t teach you anything better. Stick to it with a determination that you are going to succeed, and, unless you are very unfortunate indeed, you will succeed. Ah! what is that! Who is there? The lantern, John.’ They had just passed the village public-house, which was a thorn in the curate’s flesh, and had dimly perceived, by the light of the half-open door, dim figures striding out and flitting into the darkness; for the hour of closing was near. Perhaps one of the times Mr. Cattley shook his head, it was at this headquarters of opposition to all he was trying to do. He was not of different clay from other men, and he hated the place, as those who have had to contend against an evil influence, whose headquarters they cannot reach, are apt to do, with more vehemence than perfect justice demands. Some one had addressed him, as he spoke to John, with a hoarse, ‘I say, master,’ out of the darkness, and there had come along with the voice into the fresh, chill, and wide air round them that overpowering smell of drink which sickens both the senses and the heart. It must have been a very bold parishioner, indeed, who could have addressed the curate at that stage, and it was with a voice much sterner than usual that he said, ‘The lantern, John!’ John raised the lantern quickly, sharing his master’s indignation, and, the light suddenly shifting, fell upon a figure which, happily, was not that of a village toper. It was a tall man, in rough clothes, with a red spotted handkerchief tied round his neck, and a hat slouched over his eyes. If there had been any possibility of violence in Edgeley, the curate, who was a slim man, and, notwithstanding his height, not very strong, might have shrunk from such a meeting in the dark; but he was in his own kingdom, and there was not one even of the worst characters in the village who did not more or less acknowledge his authority. And Mr. Cattley, besides, was not the sort of man to be afraid. He said, with a voice which changed at once from the friendly softness with which he had been talking to the boy, ‘Who are you? and what do you want?’ His tone, John thought, was enough to strike terror to the most obdurate heart. ‘No offence, master,’ said the man. ‘I was only wishful to ask if you know’d of a Missis May, that I’ve been told lived about here.’ ‘No. I know no one of that name,’ said the curate. ‘There is no Mrs. May in this village. You seem to be a stranger here. Wherever you’re lodging, I advise you to go home and go to bed. It’s too late to be asking for anyone at this hour of the night.’