In the dusk of a winter evening, Richard Harrison's tired feet turned to the door of a shabby little inn on the outskirts of Northampton.  He had grown skilful in picking resting-places where he was likely to meet none but creatures as wretched as himself, wanderers and beggars too much taken up with their own misery to waste curiosity on the history of others.  Wet and weary, the fire was grateful to him, though the room it lit up was as dirty and mean as could well be.  But the rickety settle at least kept the wind from the tired traveller, and the bulging rafters supported a roof that kept the rain out.  Richard crouched over the hearth, drying his wet clothes and awaiting without much expectation of satisfaction the supper the slatternly hostess promised, when a heavy step without, and a violent rattle of the door-latch, told that another wayfarer was coming to share his wretched lair.  A tall burly fellow swaggered into the room, and flung into the elbow chair with a weight that made it creak.