He pulled his rein, nodded at her with set lips, and rode on his way.
Issuing from the drive a scene of animation, unwonted to that dead prospect, met his gaze. A couple of vans were pulled up before the porch, the horses that had drawn them standing apart and nosing in their bags. Men, a half-dozen of them, were busy going to and fro, lugging huge objects swathed in packing sheets into the house, and returning, hotly slouching and empty-handed. Further, under a tree, stood Darda holding a saddle-horse by the bridle; and on the lawn, walking hither and thither in earnest converse, strolled Whimple and the little baronet of “Chatters.”
Now, this latter sight, for all his reasoned conclusions, Mr. Tuke took in with something a scowling displeasure. No doubt the two were long acquainted, relatively as to their different conditions, and had so met and exchanged speech for years before he happened upon the district. None the less, their intimacy at the present juncture annoyed and a little distressed him. He could not be morally confirmed in his mistrust of the servant without questioning the bona fides of any one to whom the latter appeared to give his confidence.
It was a foolish—indeed, it seemed an outrageous suspicion in face of the comically ingenuous personality of the poor little Sir David. But why the devil couldn’t the man let Whimple alone?
His new friend caught sight of him as he stood drawn up at the outlet of the drive; saluted, and came towards him with an air of the utmost importance and solemnity.
“Tuke,” he said, putting up his hand on the other’s saddle-bow and looking earnestly in his face—“where the deuce have you been?”
“Yes, yes,” he went on, conscious of a certain atmosphere. “It’s all right—it’s no business of mine, of course. Only, you’ve been wanted, my friend.”
“Oh!—by whom?”
“By Whimple, there. The man’s half-wild with fright.”
The other answered with a little contemptuous laugh.