His aunt met him angrily on the porch. "Thar ye are at last, and yer's a
stranger waitin to see you. He's been axin all sorts o' questions, about
the house and the business, and kinder snoopin' round permiskiss.
I don't like his looks, Jeff, but thet's no reason why ye should be
gallivantin' round in business hours."

A large, thick-set man, with a mechanical smile that was an overt act of
false pretense, was lounging in the bar-room. Jeff dimly remembered to
have seen him at the last county election, distributing tickets at the
polls. This gave Jeff a slight prejudice against him, but a greater
presentiment of some vague evil in the air caused him to motion the
stranger to an empty room in the angle of the house behind the barroom,
which was too near the hall through which Miss Mayfield must presently
pass.

It was an infelicitous act of precaution, for at that very moment Miss
Mayfield slowly passed beneath its open window, and seeing her chair
in the sunny angle, dropped into it for rest and possibly meditation.
Consequently she overheard every word of the following colloquy.

The Stranger's voice: "Well, now, seein' ez I've been waitin' for ye
over an hour, off and on, and ez my bizness with ye is two words, it
strikes me yer puttin' on a little too much style in this yer interview,
Mr. Jefferson Briggs."

Jeff's voice (a little husky with restraint): "What is yer business?"

The stranger's voice (lazily): "It's an attachment on this yer property
for principal, interest, and costs--one hundred and twelve dollars and'
seventy-five cents, at the suit of Cyrus Parker."