“Innkeeper?” hazarded John.

“Ay.”

“Does your dad keep a horse?”

The wary look came back into Ben’s face. “No.” He eyed John sideways. “That horse-cloth ain’t me dad’s. It—it belongs to a friend. He comes here sometimes. Maybe he wouldn’t like you using of it, so—so you don’t want to go saying anything about it, please, sir! Nor about him, acos he don’t like meeting no strangers!”

“Shy, is he? I won’t say anything,” promised John, wondering if this were perhaps the man of whom Ben was afraid. He was by this time convinced that some mystery hung about the toll-house, with which, no doubt, the disappearance of its custodian was connected; but he was wise enough to keep this reflection to himself, since it was plain that Ben, in the manner of a colt, was uncertain of him, ready to shy off in a panic.

When Beau had been covered with the blanket, and left to lip over an armful of hay, Ben led the Captain up the garden to the back of the toll-house, where a central door opened into a small kitchen. The house, as John quickly saw, was of the usual pattern. It consisted of two tolerable rooms with another between them, which had been divided into two by a wooden partition. The rear half was the kitchen, and the front the toll-office. The kitchen was small, over-warm, and extremely untidy. Since it was lit by a couple of dip-candles in tin holders, an unpleasant aroma of hot tallow hung about it. But the Captain knew from past experiences in the more primitive parts of Portugal that the human nose could rapidly accustom itself to even worse smells, and he entered the room without misgiving. Ben shut and bolted the door, set down the lantern, and produced from the cupboard a black bottle, and a thick tumbler. “I’ll mix you a bumper,” he offered.

The Captain, who had seated himself in the Windsor chair by the fire, grinned, but said: “Much obliged to you, but I think I’ll mix it myself. If you want to make yourself useful, see if you can pull off these boots of mine!”