"I am Morrice Buckler."
"An Englishman?" he questioned, bending his brows suddenly; for we were speaking in German.
"Of the county of Cumberland," I replied meekly. I felt as if I was repeating my catechism.
"Then, Mr. Morrice Buckler, of the county of Cumberland," he began, with an exaggerated politeness. But I broke in upon him.
"I have some knowledge of the county of Bristol, too," I said, with as much bravado as I could muster. But 'twas no great matter. The display would have disgraced a tavern bully.
The words, however, served their turn. Just for a second, just long enough for me to perceive it, a startled look of fear flashed into his eyes, and his body seemed to shrink in bulk. Then he asked suddenly:
"How came you here?"
"By a path Sir Julian Harnwood told me of," says I.
He stretched a finger towards the window.
"Go!" he cried in a low voice. "Go!"