But the place had a landlord, for he had seen them approach and was waiting at the door to meet them.
He was a big man in his shirt sleeves, wearing old riding breeches unbuttoned at the knees, and thick ploughman's boots.

He had no leggings, and his fleshy calves were imperfectly covered with woollen socks.

His face was large and pale, his neck bulged, and he had a gross unshaven jowl.

He was a type familiar to students of society; not the innkeeper, which is a thing consistent with good breeding and all the refinements; a type not unknown in the House of Lords, especially among recent creations, common enough in the House of Commons and the City of London, and by no means infrequent in the governing circles of Labour; the type known to the discerning as the Licensed Victualler.
His face was wrinkled in official smiles, and he gave the travellers a hearty good afternoon.
"Can we stop here for the night ?" Dickson asked.
The landlord looked sharply at him, and then replied to Mr.Heritage.
His expression passed from official bonhomie to official contrition.
"Impossible, gentlemen.

Quite impossible....