And then sharply, like an animal trapped, he turned towards the window and met Jake face to face.
They stood for a moment so, confronting each other in dead silence. Then lightly Saltash spoke.
"Caught trespassing, but not poaching!" he said. "Your wife and I have been settling--old scores."
Jake's eyes went past him to his wife's face. She made no sign of any kind, save that she met the look.
Jake came quietly forward. "You are very welcome, my lord," he said, and held out a steady hand.
A gleam of surprise crossed Saltash's dark face. He took the hand, looking at Jake whimsically. "You are the fellow who is not accustomed to being beaten at the winning-post," he said. "Well, you were a bad starter and the odds were dead against you, but you've got there. I congratulate you."
"You are very good, my lord." Jake's eyes, red-brown and resolute, looked into his.
Saltash shrugged his shoulders, with a slight grimace. "The rôle is thrust upon me. I wonder if I shall be able to sustain it."
Something in the word reached Jake. His lips parted in a sudden smile that banished all the hardness from his face. His hand squarely gripped and held. For a second--just a second--there was a gleam of comradeship in his eyes. "I guess it's up to you, my lord," he said.
The moment passed and Saltash turned aside, laughing with a certain royal graciousness that was all his own. "The odds are ninety-nine to one, Bolton," he said. "But you are too accustomed to that to be dismayed."