THE REAVER'S GLEN Zachary Spurge, presently ushered in by Gilling, who carefully closed the door behind himself and his companion, looked as if his recent lodging had been of an even rougher nature than that in which Copplestone had found him at their first meeting.

The rough horseman's cloak in which he was buttoned to the edge of a red neckerchief and a stubbly chin was liberally ornamented with bits of straw, scraps of furze and other odds and ends picked up in woods and hedge-rows.

Spurge, indeed, bore unmistakable evidence of having slept out in wild places for some nights and his general atmosphere was little more respectable than that of a scarecrow.

But he grinned cheerfully at Copplestone--and then frowned at Vickers.
"I didn't count for to meet no lawyers, gentlemen," he said, pausing on the outer boundaries of the parlour, "I ain't a-goin' to talk before 'em, neither!" "He's a grudge against me--I've had to appear against him once or twice," whispered Vickers to Copplestone.

"You'd better soothe him down--I want to know what he's got to tell." "It's all right, Spurge," said Copplestone.