J. S. Fletcher

“ Again, I say—why Marketstoke? And why this, the very first place in England? For what reason? Now, as a lawyer, a reason does suggest itself to me; I've been thinking about it ever since that rosy-cheeked lass called at my office this afternoon. What does the man who's been away from his native land for the best part of his life do, as a rule, when at last he sets foot on it again—eh?"
"I'm not greatly experienced," replied Viner, smiling at the old solicitor's professional enthusiasm. "What does he do—usually?"
"Makes his way as soon as possible to his native place!" ”

“ He was a very overbearing, harsh old gentleman, not at all liked—the people here in Marketstoke, nearly all of them his tenants, used to be perpetually at variance with him about something or other; he was the sort of man who wanted to have his own way about everything. ”

“ But when dinner was over and he had drunk a glass or two of old port, his eyes began to turn toward the door of the quaint little parlour in which he and Viner had been installed, and to which the landlady had promised to come.
"I confess I'm unusually curious about what we're going to hear, Viner," he said, as he drew out a well-filled cigar-case. "There's an atmosphere of mystery about our presence and our surroundings that's like an apéritif to an already hungry man. Ashton, poor fellow, comes over to this quiet, out-of-the-way place; why, we don't know ”