The angel face of Tinker had never looked more angelic to human being than it looked to the weary money-lender.

He had never seen him before; therefore, he had no reason to suppose that that face was not the index to an angelic nature.

Unfortunately, Tinker knew by sight most of his father's friends and enemies, and at the first glance he recognised the squat figure, the thick, square nose, and muddy complexion of Mr.Robert Lambert.
"My lad," said the money-lender, failing to perceive that he was addressing one of the worst kind of man in all romance, "I've lost my way.

I want to get to the house of Tullispaith.

Which is the road ?" "There is no road; and it's eight miles away," said Tinker, knitting his brow into the gloomy and forbidding frown of a robber baron.
"Eight miles! What am I to do?
Where is the nearest place I can get a conveyance ?" "It would be a twenty-mile drive if you got a cart, and there's no cart nearer than Ardrochan, and that's six miles away." "Well, then, a horse, or a pony, and a guide ?" "You could get a pony at Hamish Beg's; and one of his sons could guide you." "Where does he live?
How can I get there ?" "Three miles the other side of that tower." "Will you show me the way?
I'll give you--I'll give you half-a-crown." "Hildebrand Anne of Ardrochan is not the hired varlet of every wandering chapster," said Tinker with a splendid air.
"I'm not a wandering chapster," said the money-lender.