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           Thehousebeforemewastheordinarymoorlandfarm,withamorepretentiouswhitewashedwingadded.Attachedtothiswingwasaglassveranda,andthroughtheglassIsawthefaceofanelderlygentlemanmeeklywatchingme.

           Istalkedovertheborderofcoarsehillgravelandenteredtheopenverandadoor.Withinwasapleasantroom,glassononeside,andontheotheramassofbooks.Morebooksshowedinaninnerroom.Onthefloor,insteadoftables,stoodcasessuchasyouseeinamuseum,filledwithcoinsandqueerstoneimplements.

           Therewasaknee-holedeskinthemiddle,andseatedatit,withsomepapersandopenvolumesbeforehim,wasthebenevolentoldgentleman.Hisfacewasroundandshiny,likeMrPickwick’s,bigglasseswerestuckontheendofhisnose,andthetopofhisheadwasasbrightandbareasaglassbottle.HenevermovedwhenIentered,butraisedhisplacideyebrowsandwaitedonmetospeak.

           Itwasnotaneasyjob,withaboutfiveminutestospare,totellastrangerwhoIwasandwhatIwanted,andtowinhisaid.Ididnotattemptit.Therewassomethingabouttheeyeofthemanbeforeme,somethingsokeenandknowledgeable,thatIcouldnotfindaword.Isimplystaredathimandstuttered.

           “Youseeminahurry,myfriend,”hesaidslowly.

           Inoddedtowardsthewindow.Itgaveaprospectacrossthemoorthroughagapintheplantation,andrevealedcertainfigureshalfamileoffstragglingthroughtheheather.

           “Ah,Isee,”hesaid,andtookupapairoffield-glassesthroughwhichhepatientlyscrutinizedthefigures.