‘Stick or no stick,’ was the family comment of the Kentons, ‘there must be something in the man, if only his head is not turned.’
‘Which,’ observed Sir Edward, ‘is not possible to a stick with a real head, but only too easy to a sham one.’
CHAPTER IV
HONOURS WANING
‘And who is the man?’ So asked a lady in deep mourning of another still more becraped, as they sat together in the darkened room of a Northmoor house on the day before the funeral.
The speaker had her bonnet by her side, and showed a kindly, clever, middle-aged face. She was Mrs. Bury, a widow, niece of the late Lord; the other was his daughter, Bertha Morton, a few years younger. She was not tearful, but had dark rings round her eyes, and looked haggard and worn.
‘The man? I never heard of him till this terrible loss of poor little Mikey.’
‘Then did he put in a claim?’
‘Oh no, but Hailes knew about him, and so, indeed, did my father. It seems that three generations ago there was a son who followed the instincts of our race further than usual, and married a jockey’s daughter, or something of that sort. He was set up in a horse-breeding farm and cut the connection; but it seems that there was always a sort of
communication of family events, so that Hailes knew exactly where to look for an heir.’
‘Not a jockey!’