“Oh, it is as well to remind you,” he said, coolly. “That door leads to the stables. This way,” and he led him across a courtyard covered by a glass roof. “Here you are; twenty-four stalls. I hunt, you know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes. That’s my best horse. Gave two hundred and fifty for him.”
“Beautiful creature, sir.”
“Yes. Carriage horses—six of them. And here’s your dogcart. Sure you won’t have anything before you go?”
“Nothing, thank you, sir,” replied Mr. Mowle. “Thank you for showing me over, Mr. Bradstone. It is a truly beautiful place, and fit for a king. Beautiful! I’ll see that your kind orders are properly executed, sir. Good-day.”
Mr. Bartley Bradstone nodded. “Good-day,” he replied, and, his hands thrust into his pockets, he returned to the house to dress for dinner.
Mr. Mowle climbed into the dogcart, and was driven rapidly away. At the end of the avenue he laid his hand upon the arm of the groom.
“One moment, young man,” he said.
The groom pulled up the impatient horse, and Mr. Mowle turned and looked back at the house.