'Well, some kinds of grass are edible, you know, Mr Cargrim; although we need not go on all fours to eat them as he did.' 'So many people would need to revert to their natural characters of animals if that custom came in,' said George, smiling. 'A certain great poet remarked that everyone had a portion of the nature of some animal,' observed Cargrim, 'especially women.' 'Then Mrs Pansey is a magpie,' cried Mab, with an arch look at her aunt. 'She is a magpie, and a fox, and a laughing hyaena, my dear.' 'Oh, aunty, what a trinity!' 'I suppose, Cargrim, all you black-coated parsons are rooks,' said George. 'No doubt, captain; and you soldiers are lions.' 'Aunty is a Jenny Wren!' 'And Mab is a white peacock,' said Miss Whichello, with a nod. 'Captain Pendle, protect me,' laughed Miss Arden. 'I decline to be called a peacock.' 'You are a golden bird of paradise, Miss Arden.' 'Ah, that is a pretty compliment, Captain Pendle. Thank you!' While George laughed, Cargrim, rather tired of these zoological comparisons, strove to change the subject by an allusion to the adventure of the previous night. 'The man who attacked you was certainly a wolf,' he said decisively. 'Who was the man?' asked Miss Whichello, carefully weighing herself some cheese. 'Some tramp who had been in the wars,' replied George, carelessly; 'a discharged soldier, I daresay. At least, he had a long red scar on his villainous-looking face. I saw it in the moonlight, marking him as with the brand of Cain.' 'A scar!' repeated Miss Whichello, in so altered a tone that Cargrim stared at her, and hastened to explain further, so as to learn, if possible, the meaning of her strange look. 'A scar on the right cheek,' he said slowly, 'from the ear to the mouth.' 'What kind of a looking man is he?' asked the old lady, pushing away her plate with a nervous gesture. 'Something like a gipsy--lean, tall and swarthy, with jet-black eyes and an evil expression. He talks like an educated person.' 'You seem to know all about him, Cargrim,' said Captain Pendle, in some surprise, while Miss Whichello, her rosy face pale and scared, sat silently staring at the tablecloth. 'I have several times been to an hotel called The Derby Winner,' explained the chaplain, 'to see a sick woman; and there I came across this scamp several times. He stays there, I believe!' 'What is his name?' asked Miss Whichello, hoarsely. 'Jentham, I have been informed.' 'Jentham! I don't know the name.' 'I don't suppose you know the man either, aunty?' 'No, my love,' replied Miss Whichello, in a low voice. 'I don't suppose I know the man either. Is he still at The Derby Winner, Mr Cargrim?' 'I believe so; he portions his time between that hotel and a gipsy camp on Southberry Common.' 'What is he doing here?' 'Really, my dear lady, I do not know.' 'Aunty, one would think you knew the man,' said Mab, amazed at her aunt's emotion.