Major Grantly had The Times, and John Eames had The Daily News, and they exchanged papers.  One had the last Saturday, and the other the last Spectator, and they exchanged these also.  Both had The Pall Mall Gazette, of which enterprising periodical they gradually came to discuss the merits and demerits, thus falling into conversation at last, in spite of the weight of the mission on which each of them was intent.  Then, at last, when they were within half-an-hour of the end of their journey, Major Grantly asked his companion what was the best inn at Guestwick.  He had at first been minded to go on to Allington at once—­to go on to Allington and get his work done, and then return home or remain there, or find the nearest inn with a decent bed, as circumstances might direct him.  But on reconsideration, as he drew nearer to the scene of his future operations, he thought that it might be well for him to remain that night at Guestwick.  He did not quite know how far Allington was from Guestwick, but he did know that it was still mid-winter, and that the days were short.  ‘The Magpie’ was the best inn, Johnny said.  Having lived at Guestwick all his life, and having a mother living there now, he had never himself put up at ‘The Magpie’ but he believed it to a good country inn.  They kept post-horses there, he knew.  He did not tell the stranger that his late old friend Lord De Guest, and his present old friend Lady Julia, always hired post-horses from ‘The Magpie’, but he grounded his ready assertion on the remembrance of that fact.  ’I think I shall stay there tonight,’ said the major.  ’You’ll find it pretty comfortable, I don’t doubt,’ said Johnny.  ’Though, indeed, it always seems to me that a man alone at an inn has a very bad time of it.  Reading is all very well, but one gets tired of it at last.  And then I hate horse-hair chairs.’  ‘It isn’t very delightful,’ said the major, ‘but beggars mustn’t be choosers.’  Then there was a pause, after which the major spoke again.  ’You don’t happen to know which way Allington lies?’

‘Allington!’ said Johnny.

‘Yes, Allington.  Is there not a village called Allington?’

‘There is a village called Allington, certainly.  It lies over there.’  And Johnny pointed with his finger through the window.  ’As you do not know the country you can see nothing, but I can see the Allington trees at this moment.’

‘I suppose there is no inn at Allington?’

’There’s a public-house, with a very nice bedroom.  It is called the “Red Lion”.  Mrs Forrard keeps it.  I would quite as soon stay there as at “The Magpie”.  Only if they don’t expect you, they wouldn’t have much for dinner.’

‘Then you know the village of Allington?’

’Yes, I know the village of Allington very well.  I have friends living there.  Indeed, I may say I know everybody living in Allington.’

‘Do you know Mrs Dale?’