"Not to the village, sir, though you can get through this way. It comes out by Mr. Mortimer's stables."
"Ah, yes. This his land?"
"No, sir, it's Mr. Topham's land, but Mr. Mortimer rents this field and the next for fodder."
"Oh, yes." Wimsey peered across the hedge. "Lucerne, I suppose. Or clover."
"Clover, sir. And the mangolds is for the cattle."
"Oh—Mr. Mortimer keeps cattle as well as horses?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very jolly. Have a gasper?" Wimsey had sidled across to the barn in his interest, and was gazing absently into its dark interior. It contained a number of farm implements and a black fly of antique construction, which seemed to be undergoing renovation with black varnish. Wimsey pulled some vestas from his pocket. The box was apparently damp, for, after one or two vain attempts he abandoned it, and struck a match on the wall of the barn. The flame, lighting up the ancient fly, showed it to be incongruously fitted with rubber tyres.
"Very fine stud, Mr. Mortimer's, I understand," said Wimsey carelessly.
"Yes, sir, very fine indeed."