he hard road
until you were compelled. How far could you contrive to travel in this
way?"

Farmer Menhennick found a seat and sat scratching his head. "Three miles,
maybe," he decided at length.

"And what sort of road is this when you strike it?"

"Turnpike."

"Indeed? And where's the pike?"

"At Cann's Gate."

"That tells me nothing, I'm afraid; but we'll put the question in another
form. Suppose that we are forced at length to leave the turf and fields
and strike into the road for Polperro. Now where would this happen?
Some way beyond the turnpike, I imagine."

"Indeed no, sir: it would be a mile on this side of the pike, or
threequarters at the least."

"You are sure?"

"Sure as I sit here. Why the road goes down a coombe; and before you get
near the turnpike, the coombe narrows _so_." The farmer illustrated the V
by placing his hands at an angle.

Mr. Noy found his snuff-box, took a heavy pinch, inhaled it, and closed
his box with a snap. Then he faced the farmer's wife with a low bow.

"Madam," said he, "you may put this young gentleman to bed, and the sooner
the better. He has lost a large sum of money, which I am fairly
confident I can recover for him without his help; and your parish--which
is also mine--has lost its character, and this also I propose to recover.
But to that end I must require your excellent husband to fetch out his
trap and drive me with all speed to Squire Granville's." He paused, and
added, "We are in luck to-night undoubtedly; but I fear I can promise him
no such luck as to meet a hearse and headless driver on the way. . . .
One moment, Mr. Menhennick! Have you such things as pen, ink and paper,
and a farm-boy able to ride?"

"Certainly I have, sir."

"Then while you are harnessing your nag, I'll drop a line to the
riding-officer at Polperro; and if after receipt of it he allows a single
fishing-boat to leave the harbour, he'll be sorry--that's all.
Now, sir--Eh? Why are you hesitating?"

"Well, indeed, your reverence knows best; and if you force me to drive
over to Squire Granville's, why then I must. But I warn you, sir, that he
hunts to-morrow; and if, begging your pardon, you knew the old varmint's
temper on a hunting day in the morning--"

"Hunts, does he? D'ye mean that he keeps a pack of hounds?"

"Why, of course, sir!"

Farmer Menhennick's accent was pathetically reproachful.

"God forgive me! And I didn't know it--I, your rector! Your rebuke