‘This house?’ he asked once, interested in some chance allusion to the place: ‘it is a rare and old one?’
Brion did not know; but Grenville, who was well posted in local history, answered dogmatically for him:—
‘’Twas re-built in the Crookback’s reign, by one Miles Bagott, a Yorkist franklin. That was always a family, cry you mercy, young gentleman, to back the wrong horse.’
Bagott, some spark rekindling in his fuddled brain, looked the length of the table, with glazed eyes and a tipsy leer.
‘The wrong horse,’ said he, in a thick disjointed voice—‘the wrong horse may suttimes have the better tidle, and may hap to come to its own in the end.’
All eyes were turned on the speaker.
‘The better title, master?’ asked Grenville, with a sneer. ‘What better title? To the crown?’
The drunkard pursed his lips and nodded his head extravagantly. He had said, his manner expressed, all he meant to say.
The two visitors exchanged a quick glance; and then Grenville remarked, as if by design:—
‘Nathless I would not put Queen Mary of Scotland’s chance at a copper-mite.’