Once more five men, from a safe distance behind the muslin curtains, watched the approach towards the village inn of the tenant of the Great House. This time, however, conditions were different. The strip of road lay clean and hard in the grip of a four days’ frost. There were little pools of ice near the pavement, the trees, leafless and stark, stood motionless against the clear sky. Although it was early in the afternoon the sun was already sinking beneath a bank of ominous-looking clouds. Mr. Johnson, in thick tweeds and leggings, with a powdering of snow upon his coat, carrying a gun over one shoulder and a cartridge bag suspended from the other, made his appearance coming along the lane from the Hall.

“He do be a changed man, that, for sure,” Mr. Pank observed.

“And for that matter,” Mr. Craske put in, “his wife be a changed woman. I mind when she used to come in for groceries for Madame, always looking a little tired, almost sulky-like, as though there were nothing in life worth caring about. Now, I do call her one of the best-looking women in these parts. It’s worth going a mile to see her and Mrs. Gregory together, either on horseback or out with the beagles.”

“They say,” the innkeeper began——

“Hush!” Rawson interrupted. “I believe he’s coming in.”

Mr. Johnson had hesitated at the corner and glanced at his watch. Instead of taking the turn to the Great House he swung towards the inn, and, pausing for a moment outside to look down the breech of his gun, entered with a cheery greeting. Rawson at once stood up. The newcomer good-humouredly waved him back to his seat.

“Don’t let me disturb any one,” he begged, finding a convenient corner for his gun and relapsing into the easy-chair which had been discreetly vacated by Mr. Craske. “I’ll take a warming drink, if you please, Mr. Pank. A wineglassful of sloe gin, if you have it, and if any of you gentlemen will join me, I shall be proud. I forgot my flask this morning.”

“You’ve been out along with Mr. Gregory, sir?” Rawson enquired.

“We’ve been after snipe on the mere side. Good sport, but chilly. I’ve shot snipe in China before now, but they don’t seem in such a hurry as these Norfolk devils. Mr. Gregory wiped my eyes more than once.”

“Mr. Gregory’s a fine shot at what I may call the irregular birds,” the butler ventured, “snipe and woodcock and suchlike. You’ll pardon me saying so though, sir, I’d rather see you at the pheasants. I’ve noticed the last twice that the Squire’s put you at the awkward corners.”

“Well, well,” Mr. Johnson admitted, “it’s a great life, this, if I could only learn to stick on a horse. Mr. Foulds, you’ll have to keep your eye open for another one up to my weight. I had to miss a day’s hunting last week.”

“I’ll do that with pleasure, sir,” the veterinary promised. “There’s a sale at Norwich next week. I’ll be over yonder, surely.”

Mr. Johnson drank his sloe gin and held out the glass for replenishment.

“Good warming stuff,” he pronounced. “By-the-by, you may all like to know that I heard from the Squire this morning. They found the villa at Cannes in great shape, and her ladyship has walked a mile every day since they’ve been there.”

“It do seem wonderful!” the innkeeper declared.

“A most amazing recovery,” Mr. Craske echoed. “To see her lying on that chair month after month, no one would ever dream that she’d end her days marrying and walking about like any one else. There’s been a-many changes in these parts, Mr. Johnson, sir, since you’ve come.”

The latter nodded his head thoughtfully.

“There have indeed,” he agreed.

“One did feel six months ago,” the grocer continued, “as though some sort of cloud were hanging over the village, what with the poor gentleman as we thought had been murdered, and the police acting so suspicious-like round the place, and all the time talk about the Hall and the Ballaston lands coming under the hammer, and you, Mr. Johnson, not half the cheerful gentleman you are now, looking so solemn as though you had something on your mind all the time, if one might make so free.”

“Things have changed certainly,” Mr. Johnson acquiesced, knocking out the ashes from his pipe and relighting it, preparatory to departure. “The Ballaston mortgages, for instance, as every one knows, have been paid up to the last farthing, and enough left over from Mr. Gregory’s little enterprise to keep every one in comfort for the rest of their lives. No talk nowadays either of having to sell the old pictures or bits of china that weren’t heirlooms. There’s Mr. Henry up at Christie’s once a month looking for missing pieces. He’s starting a new catalogue the first of the year.”

“And the poor gentleman, as was supposed to have been murdered, found to have shot himself!” Mr. Foulds remarked. “That sort of lifted a weight from the place.”

Mr. Johnson took up his gun.

“Well,” he said, “we certainly seem in smooth water now. I am afraid I was rather an unpopular resident at one time.”

“Mr. Craske was the only one on us,” the innkeeper rejoined with a grin, “as had any complaint. He did say, when you came, as he was hoping for a family man.”

The tenant of the Great House turned and faced the little company. There was a twinkle in his eyes and a gleam of mutual understanding passed between them.

“Well,” he exclaimed good-humouredly, “this is no sort of a place for keeping secrets. You’ll have another health to drink before long, I hope. Good afternoon, every one.”

He took his leave, and they watched him from behind the muslin blinds as he walked briskly up the lane and entered his domain by the postern gate.

“That do seem to me to be a proper sort of man,” the innkeeper declared emphatically.