There was nothing in the first view of his character calculated to
engender suspicion. The neighbourhood was populous. But, as I conned
over the catalogue, I perceived that the only foreigner among us was
Clithero. Our scheme was, for the most part, a patriarchal one. Each
farmer was surrounded by his sons and kinsmen. This was an exception to
the rule. Clithero was a stranger, whose adventures and character,
previously to his coming hither, were unknown to us. The elm was
surrounded by his master's domains. An actor there must be, and no one
was equally questionable.

The more I revolved the pensive and reserved deportment of this man, the
ignorance in which we were placed respecting his former situation, his
possible motives for abandoning his country and choosing a station so
much below the standard of his intellectual attainments, the stronger my
suspicions became. Formerly, when occupied with conjectures relative to
the same topic, the image of this man did not fail to occur; but the
seeming harmlessness of his ordinary conduct had raised him to a level
with others, and placed him equally beyond the reach of suspicion. I did
not, till now, advert to the recentness of his appearance among us, and
to the obscurity that hung over his origin and past life. But now these
considerations appeared so highly momentous as almost to decide the
question of his guilt.

But how were these doubts to be changed into absolute certainty?
Henceforth this man was to become the subject of my scrutiny. I was to
gain all the knowledge, respecting him, which those with whom he lived,
and were the perpetual witnesses of his actions, could impart. For this
end I was to make minute inquiries, and to put seasonable
interrogatories. From this conduct I promised myself an ultimate
solution of my doubts.