I should have stood by and watched the little game; I should have encouraged Isaac Bolum and Henry Holmes to apply the interrogating probe; I should have warned Weston of the plotting at the store to lay bare the secret of his life; I should have brought the contending parties together and enjoyed the duello.  Instead, I had to admit to myself a curiosity as to the stranger’s identity that equalled, if it did not surpass, that of Theophilus Jones.  His was curiosity pure and simple; mine was something more.  Weston had come quietly into my own castle, had taken complete possession of it for a moment, and then calmly walked away with the fairest thing it held—­and all so quietly and with an air that in a thousand years of practice, I or none other in the valley could have simulated.  The picture was still sharp in my mind as I sat there smoking and drawing Tim out; for when I had vented my anger on my pipe that morning I had hurried to the gate to watch my departing visitors as they swung down the village street.  Weston, lanky and erect, moved with a masterful stride, not unlike the lean and keen-witted setter that flashed to and fro over the road before him.  At his side was the girl, a slender body in drab, tossing her hat gayly about at the end of its long string.  They passed the store and the mill, and at the bend were lost to my view.  They seemed to find themselves such good company!  Even Tim, so fine and big, had in this homely, lanky man a rival well worth watching.

And who was the quiet, lanky man?  Over and over I asked myself the question, and when I touched its every phase I found that Henry Holmes or Isaac Bolum, some one of the store worthies, had met defeat there before me.  At last I gave up, and by a sudden thought arose and pulled on my overcoat, and got my hat.  Tim was surprised.

“You are not going out?” he said.

“I think I’ll stroll down to the tavern and see this stranger,” I replied carelessly.  “No, you needn’t come.  I can find my way alone all right, for the moon will be up and it’s only a step.”

It did seem to me that Tim might insist on bearing me company, knowing as he did that I was still a bit rickety; but he saw fit to take my one refusal as final, and muttered something about reading.  Then, I left him.

It has been years since they have had a license at our tavern, so there was a solitary man in the bar-room when I entered.  Elmer Spiker, mine host of the inn, was huddled close to the stove, and was reading by the light of a lamp.  Pausing at the threshold before opening the door, the sonorous mumble sounding through the deal panels misled me.  Believing the Spiker family at prayers, I stood reverently without until the service seemed to last too long to be one of devotion.  Then I opened a crack and peeked in.  Seeing a lone man at the distant end of the room, I entered.  Elmer’s back was toward me and my presence was unnoticed.  His eyes were on the paper before him.