CHAPTER IX.
The man’s face looked fallen and hectic; but he was recovered at least of his fit. Darda clung to his arm, a frail, defiant, wisp of a thing, her hair a quivering mist of fire in the light of the low-down sun.
“Whither away?” said the baronet in surprise. “My horse, Whimple.”
Dennis put his sister gently to one side, and took the bridle. Standing thus, he turned to his master and spoke him quietly.
“We stayed to deliver you the keys, sir. I have made all snug against our going.”
“And where do you wend now?” said Mr. Tuke mockingly.
“I don’t know, sir; indeed, I don’t. We must make shift in a barn for to-night.”
“And your belongings—your personal effects?”
The servant made a sad expressive gesture. “Only our poor clothes,” it seemed to imply.
“Now, my good fellow,” said the baronet, a little grimly, “I decline, you know, to take the responsibility of this self-martyrdom. It is a weak attempt to put me in the wrong, which is no improvement of your case. I gave an order which was not carried out.”