Thy company still we love, we love,
God grant thee still to thrive.
And never will we, depart from thee,
For better or worse, my joy!
For thou shalt still, have our good will,
God's blessing on my sweet boy."

"Bravo, Lubin!" cried Austin, clapping his hands. "You do sing
beautifully. And what a delightful old song! Where did you pick it
up?"

"Eh, Master Austin," said Lubin, emerging from among the
rhododendrons, "if I'd known you was a-listening I'd 'a faked up
something from a French opera for you. Why, that's an old song as I've
known ever since I was that high--'Tom of Exeter' they calls it. It's
a rare favourite wi' the maids down in the parts I come from."

"Shows their good taste," said Austin. "It's awfully pretty. Who was
Tom Dove, and why did he come to town?"

"Nay, I can't tell," replied Lubin. "Tis some made-up tale, I doubt.
They do say as how he was a tailor. But there is folks as'll say
anything, you know."

"A tailor!" exclaimed Austin, scornfully, "That I'm sure he wasn't.
But oh, Lubin, there _is_ somebody coming to town in a day or
two--somebody I want to find out about. Do you often go into the
town?"

"Eh, well, just o' times; when there's anything to take me there,"
answered Lubin, vaguely. "On market-days, every now and again."

"Oh yes, I know, when you go and sell ducks," put in Austin. "Now
what I want to know is this. Have you, within the last three or four
weeks, seen a stranger anywhere about?"

"A stranger?" repeated Lubin. "Ay, that I certainly have. Any amount
o' strangers."

"Oh well, yes, of course, how stupid of me!" exclaimed Austin,
impatiently. "There must have been scores and scores. But I mean a
particular stranger--a certain person in particular, if you understand
me. Anybody whose appearance struck you in any way."

"Well, but what sort of a stranger?" asked Lubin. "Can't you tell me
anything about him? What'd he look like, now?"

"That's just what I want to find out," replied Austin. "If I could
describe him I shouldn't want you to. All I know is that he's a sort
of elderly gentleman, rather more than fifty. He may be fifty-five, or
getting on for sixty. Now, isn't that near enough? Oh--and I'm almost
sure that he's a traveller."

"H'm," pondered Lubin, leaning on his broom reflectively. "Well, yes,
I did see a sort of elderly gentleman some three or four weeks ago,
standing at the bar o' the 'Coach-and-Horses.' What his age mi