Pitt's Scawens lies some nine miles off the railway, and six from the nearest market-town; consequently, on hearing there was a comfortable inn near the village, I had determined to make that my resting-place for the night and do my business early on the morrow.
"Who lives down yonder ?" I asked my driver.
"Squire Parkyn," he answered, not troubling to follow my gaze.
"Old family ?" "May be: Belonged to these parts before I can mind." "What's the place called ?" "Tremenhuel." I had certainly never heard the name before, nevertheless my lips were forming the syllables almost before he spoke.

As he flicked up his grey horse and the gig began to oscillate in more business-like fashion, I put him a fourth question--a question at once involuntary and absurd.
"Are you sure the people who live there are called Parkyn ?" He turned his head at this, and treated me quite excusably to a stare of amazement.
"Well--considerin' I've lived in these parts five-an'-forty year, man and boy, I reckon I _ought_ to be sure." The reproof was just, and I apologised.

Nevertheless Parkyn was not the name I wanted.

What was the name?
And why did I want it?
I had not the least idea.

For the next mile I continued to hunt my brain for the right combination of syllables.