folk went early to bed, and the inn was too far from the town to have
attracted waifs and strays from the crowd. What was still more unusual,
the tones were not the rough, forced, vagrant tones of tipsy farmers;
they were of a single voice, light, musical, and true. Desmond's
curiosity was flicked, and he hastened his step, guessing from the
clearness of the sound that the windows were open and the singer in full
view.

The singing ceased abruptly just as he reached the inn. But the windows
stood indeed wide open, and from the safe darkness of the road he could
see clearly, by the light of four candles on the high mantel shelf, the
whole interior of the inn parlor. It held four persons. One lay back in a
chair near the fire, his legs outstretched, his chin on his breast, his
open lips shaking as he snored. It was Tummus Biles, the tranter, who had
driven a tall stranger from Chester to the present spot, and whose
indignation at being miscalled Jehu had only been appeased by a quart of
strong ale. On the other side of the fireplace, curled up on a settle,
and also asleep, lay the black boy, Scipio Africanus. Desmond noted these
two figures in passing; his gaze fastened upon the remaining two, who sat
at a corner of the table, a tankard in front of each.

One of the two was Job Grinsell, landlord of the inn, a man with a red
nose, loose mouth, and shifty eyes--not a pleasant fellow to look at, and
regarded vaguely as a bad character. He had once been head gamekeeper to
Sir Willoughby Stokes, the squire, whose service he had left suddenly and
in manifest disgrace. His companion was the stranger, the negro boy's
master, the man whose odd appearance and manner of talk had already set
Desmond's curiosity a-buzzing. It was clear that he must be the singer,
for Job Grinsell had a voice like a saw, and Tummus Biles knew no music
save the squeak of his cartwheels. It surprised Desmond to find the