Here we baited, an obscure inn
which had been recommended to me as "safe;" and late in the afternoon
held on for Newmarket. I found the farm-house I sought without any
difficulty, but the owner was down in the village, a mile or so off.
Without dismounting, I asked to see the mistress, and a thin,
sickly-looking woman came to the door. At my first question--relating of
course to Shipley--a glimmer of distrust dawned on her pale, vague face.
"There was no one there except her own family, and she had never seen or
heard of a man on a brown horse." I was too thoroughly inured to
disappointment by this time to feel angry--much less surprised--at
anything in that line. Evidently I had to do with one of those
impracticable yet timorous females--strong in their very weakness--who
will persist in bearing a meek false-witness till the examiner's
patience fails. So my answer was quiet enough. "Pardon me, I think your
memory is treacherous. You surely must at least once in your natural
life, have seen or heard of 'a man on a brown horse.' But if you have
known nothing of such a remarkable pair within--the last month for
instance, I fear you can't help me much. If you will tell me where to
find your husband, in Newmarket, and allow me to light my pipe, I'll not
trouble you any more.
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