Somebody'll be after that, you may be sure!" Bryce left the train at Barthorpe thanking his good luck--the man in the far corner had unwittingly given him a hint.

He would pay a visit to Braden Medworth--the coincidence was too striking to be neglected.

But first Barthorpe itself--a quaint old-world little market-town, in which some of even the principal houses still wore roofs of thatch, and wherein the old custom of ringing the curfew bell was kept up.

He found an old-fashioned hotel in the marketplace, under the shadow of the parish church, and in its oak-panelled dining-room, hung about with portraits of masters of foxhounds and queer old prints of sporting and coaching days, he dined comfortably and well.
It was too late to attempt any investigations that evening, and when Bryce had finished his leisurely dinner he strolled into the smoking-room--an even older and quainter apartment than that which he had just left.

It was one of those rooms only found in very old houses--a room of nooks and corners, with a great open fireplace, and old furniture and old pictures and curiosities--the sort of place to which the old-fashioned tradesmen of the small provincial towns still resort of an evening rather than patronize the modern political clubs.
There were several men of this sort in the room when Bryce entered, talking local politics amongst themselves, and he found a quiet corner and sat down in it to smoke, promising himself some amusement from the conversation around him; it was his way to find interest and amusement in anything that offered.