He left the place by a side entrance, and rode slowly down the private road, fringed by a magnificent row of elm trees, to the village. The latch of the iron gate at the end of the avenue was stiff, and he failed to open it with his hunting crop at the first attempt. Just as he was preparing to try again, a tall, boyish-looking young man, dressed in sombre black, came swiftly across the road and opened the gate. Mr. Hurd thanked him curtly, and the young man raised his hat.
“You are Mr. Hurd, I believe?” he remarked. “I was going to call upon you this afternoon.”
The little man upon the pony frowned. He had no doubt as to his questioner.
“My name is Hurd, sir,” he answered stiffly. “What can I do for you?”
“You can let me have that barn for my services,” the other answered smiling. “I wrote you about it, you know. My name is Macheson.”
Mr. Hurd’s answer was briefly spoken, and did not invite argument.
“I have mentioned the matter to Miss Thorpe-Hatton, sir. She agrees with me that your proposed ministrations are altogether unneeded in this neighbourhood.”
“You won’t let me use the barn, then?” the young man remarked pleasantly, but with some air of disappointment.
Mr. Hurd gathered up the reins in his hand.