The radiant footman, upon returning from the errand on which he had been sent, thought it a little singular that a man should be running at headlong speed over mead and meadow.
He paused and watched the fugitive; and, as he did so, muttered to himself—
“That chap aint after no good, I’ll be sworn. I expect he’s been doing a little prigging on his own account. Howsomever, it aint no bis’ness o’ mine, and as to catching him, it aint to be thought of. What’s every man’s bis’ness is no man’s bis’ness.”
And so, consoling himself with this trite axiom, Mr. Henry Adolphus pursued his dignified course homewards.
He had no occasion to go down the road where the body of the dead man lay, and hence it was that our radiant footman escaped having his feelings shocked, which, to say the truth, would have been a terrible thing to a man of his delicate organisation.
He reached Broxbridge utterly unaware of the fact that a near neighbour and a tenant of his master’s had been foully murdered, and that the dead body of the murdered man was lying in a road the end of which he—Henry Adolphus—had passed as he trudged home.
Upon reaching Broxbridge he did not go at once to the Hall.
He just dropped in at the “Carved Lion,” to have a “cooler” and a little friendly chat with the landlord. The aforesaid “cooler” not having the desired effect, Henry Adolphus supplemented it by another, insisting at the same time upon Brickett joining him.
“That’s a deal better,” said the footman, after he had swallowed the contents of his second glass. “I’ve put on the steam coming home, and felt as hot and dry as a salamander.”
“I’ve had a goodish turn myself,” returned Brickett, “and have only just come in. Any fresh news?”