"And what's your name?" he demanded, as if he had all the right in the
world to walk into folks' houses and ask his questions. "Whatever it is,
you're a likely-looking youngster!"

"My name's Hugh Moneylaws," I answered, thinking it no harm to humour
him. "If you want to know about lodgings you must wait till my mother
comes in. Just now she's away up the street--she'll be back presently."

"No hurry, my lad," he replied. "None whatever. This is a comfortable
anchorage. Quiet. Your mother'll be a widow woman, now?"

"Yes," said I shortly.

"Any more of you--brothers and sisters?" he asked. "Any--aye, of
course!--any young children in the house? Because young children is what
I cannot abide--except at a distance."

"There's nobody but me and my mother, and a servant lass," I said. "This
is a quiet enough house, if that's what you mean."

"Quiet is the word," said he. "Nice, quiet, respectable lodgings. In
this town of Berwick. For a month. If not more. As I say, a comfortable
anchorage. And time, too!--when you've seen as many queer places as I
have in my day, young fellow, you'll know that peace and quiet is meat
and drink to an ageing man."

It struck me as I looked at him that he was just the sort of man that you
would expect to hear of as having been in queer places--a sort of gnarled
and stubbly man, with a wealth of seams and wrinkles about his face and