Daniel’s eyes clouded at a recollection.
“Her ladyship tells true,” he said; “and yet there be knaves here and there go about saying that Minnie had a hand in the burglary a fortnight since, and that she helped me to know the ways of the house. I knocked Saul Pratt down in the public street last Wednesday for saying it; an’ broke loose two of his front teeth.”
“I’d have done the same, for I know that rumour is a lie, Dan; and so does every other man who knows you. By the way, I’ve got something for you. It will show you that I’m going to forget the poaching stories against you. If you’ll come up to-morrow night at nine o’clock and ask for me, I’ll tell them to bring you to my study, and we’ll have a yarn about old times. It’s a gun I have for you—a real good one—as a wedding present. And well I know you’ll never put it to a dishonest use, Daniel.”
Young Sweetland grinned and grew hot with pleasure. He was a fine, powerful man, very like his father, but with some magic in his face the parent lacked. Dan’s deep jaw was underhung a trifle; his forehead sloped back rather sharply, and his neck was thick and sinewy. Every line of him spoke the fighter, but he was bull-dog in temper as well as build. Good-nature dwelt in his countenance and he never tired of laughing. Strong, natural sense of right and honour marked him. He was clever, observant, and well-educated. Only in the matter of game Dan’s attitude puzzled his friends and caused them to mistrust him. Women liked him well, for there was that in his face, and black eyes, and curly hair, that made them his friends. Children loved him better than he loved them. As for his sweetheart, she trusted him and trusted herself to cure Dan’s errors very swiftly after they should be married.
“I’m sure I’m terrible obliged to you; an’ I’ll walk up to-morrow night, if you please; an’ every time I pull trigger I’ll think kindly of you, Mister Henry, sir. Out by Vitifer, where I be going to live if my young woman likes it, there’s scores of rabbits, and a good few golden plover an’ crested plover in winter, not to name scores o’ snipe.”
“I’ll come out occasionally,” said Henry Vivian, “and when you can get a day off, you shall show me some sport.”
“Sport I warrant you. An’ you’ll be riding that way to hounds often, no doubt. There’ll always be a welcome for ’e an’ a drop of drink to my cottage, your honour.”
“To-morrow night, then. But don’t keep your young woman waiting any longer.”
Dan touched his hat and turned to the dog-cart, while his friend nodded and entered the White Hart.
There Henry Vivian found his father and two other Justices of the Peace at their luncheon in a private room. Sir Reginald and his friends were full of the burglary at Westcombe. All knew Lady Giffard, a wealthy widow, and all sympathised with her grave loss. But no theory of the crime seemed plausible, and the police were at fault. The subject was presently dismissed, for August had nearly run its course, and partridges were the theme proper to the time.