the lie of the roads. He seemed pleased to find that I remembered very
little of what I ought to have noticed on the way. It gave him an
opportunity for the display of his local erudition.

"A--remarkable
woman--used--to--live--in--the--cottage--next--the--mill--at--Stelling,"
he said; "she was the original of Kate Wingfield."

"In your 'Boldero?'" the chorus chorussed.

Remembrance of the common at Stelling--of the glimmering white faces of
the shadowy cottages--was like a cold waft of mist to me. I forgot to
say "Indeed!"

"She was--a very--remarkable--woman--She----"

I found myself wondering which was real; the common with its misty
hedges and the blurred moon; or this room with its ranks of uniformly
bound books and its bust of the great man that threw a portentous shadow
upward from its pedestal behind the lamp.

Before I had entirely recovered myself, the notables were departing to
catch the last train. I was left alone with Callan.

He did not trouble to resume his attitude for me, and when he did speak,
spoke faster.

"Interesting man, Mr. Jinks?" he said; "you recognised him?"

"No," I said; "I don't think I ever met him."