e it was comparatively easy to bring merchandise, and what not,
by way of the thumb and little finger and send the same forth by the
three exits, known to Timothy Goodale as "furrin parts." Timothy was
excessively British, as so many Canadians are, but he was a broad-minded
man in his sympathies, and a friend to all--when it paid. He was a man of
keen perceptions, of conveniently short memory, and had the capacity for
giving a lie all the virtuous appearance of truth and frankness. Goodale
had no family, and, as far as possible, served his guests himself. A
half-breed cooked for him; a half-witted French-Canadian girl did
unimportant tasks about the bedchambers, but the host himself took his
patrons into his own safekeeping and their secrets along with them.

Little Corners was not a town of savoury reputation. Law-abiding folks
gave it a wide berth; tourists found nothing interesting there, and
newcomers, of a permanent type, were discouraged. For these reasons it
was the place of all places for Mr. John Boswell to enter, by way of the
long, middle finger, and meet Priscilla Glenn, who advanced via the
thumb. No one would know them; no one would remember them an hour after
they departed.

Timothy was bustling about on a certain Sunday morning, ruminating on the
thanklessness of the task of getting ready for people who might never
appear, when, to his delight, he saw a team of weary horses advancing. He
had time only to put his features in order for business when a man
entered the room.

No one but Goodale could have taken the shock of the traveller's
personality in just the way he did. The smile froze on his face, his eyes
beamed, and his stiff, red hair seemed bristling with welcome. "Advance
agent of a circus," he thought; "sort of advertising guy."

The man who had entered was about three feet tall, horribly twisted as to
legs, and humped as to back and chest. The long, thin arms reached below
the bent knees, and large, white hands dangled from them as if attached
by wires. The big head, set low on the shoulders, seemed to have no
connecting link of neck. It was a great, shaggy head with deep-set,
wonderful eyes, sensitive mouth and chin, and a handsome nose.

"Ah, sir, delighted," said Goodale. "Shall I tell your driver to go to
the stables?"

"I'm my own driver, but I'd like your man to see to the horses. I'm John
Boswell from New York, though you'll probably forget that an hour after I
leave."

Goodale no