f a town
asserted itself, overgrowing in its unbeautiful growth the older
picturesque village of Whitmansworth.

The faint sharp click of horses' hoofs stepping swiftly and regularly
swept up the road towards the boy. He stood up the better to see the
approaching vehicle which was coming from out of the east towards him.
Two horses, he judged, listening intently. Presently a distant dark
spot on the road evolved itself into a carriage--a phaeton and a pair
of iron grey horses. It was long before the days of motors, when fine
horses and good drivers were common enough in England, but even the
small boy recognised that these animals were exceptional and were
stepping out at a pace that spoke of good blood, good training and
good hands on the reins.

He watched them trot full pace down the opposite hill and breast the
steep rise after without a break in the easy rhythm of their
movements. It was a matter of their driver's will rather than their
pleasure that made them slacken pace as they neared the mile-stone.

The lonely little figure standing there was clearly visible to the
travellers in the phaeton. The man who was driving looked at him
casually, looked again with sudden sharp scrutiny, and abruptly pulled
up his horses. He thrust the reins into his companion's hands, and was
off the box before the groom from behind could reach the horses'
heads.

The owner of the phaeton came straight towards the small boy who was
watching the horses with interest, pleased at the halt and oblivious
of his own connection with it. The traveller was a man who looked
forty-eight despite his frosted hair, and was in reality ten years
older. He was tall, well beyond average height, thin, well-fashioned,
with a keen kindly face, clean shaven. His mouth was humorous, and
there was a certain serenity of expression and bearing that invited
confidence. The boy, casting a hasty glance at him as he approached,
thought him a very fine gentleman indeed: as in fact he was, in every
possible meaning of the word.

"Is this Whitmansworth?" demanded the owner of the phaeton. His tone
was not aggressive. The boy gave him as straight a look of judgment as
he himself received.

"Down there it is," with a nod of his head in the direction of the
distant townlet.

"And not up here?"

"Dunno, they calls it the Great Road."

The stranger still stood looking down at him fixedly.

"Is your name James Christopher Hibbault?"

Without warning, withou