And how he lives is just one o' them mysteries that can't be dived into.

He's a poacher, a snarer, and a robber of the fishponds--any one of 'em when he gets the chance; leastways it's said so; and he looks just like a wild man o' the woods; wilder than any Robison Crusoe! And he--but you might not like me to mention that, sir." "Mention anything," replied Mr.Elster.

"Go on." "Well, sir, it's said by some that his was the shot that killed Mr.
George," she returned, dropping her voice; and Percival Elster started.
"Who is he ?" he exclaimed.
"He is not known to a soul.

He came here a stranger." "But--he was not here when I left home.

And I left it, you may remember, only a few days before that night." "He must have come here at that very time, sir; just as you left." "But what grounds were there for supposing that he--that he--I think you must be mistaken, Mrs.Capper.Lord Hartledon, I am sure, knows nothing of this suspicion." "I never heard nothing about grounds, sir," simply replied the woman.