"You ought to know that, Denis."
"Your honor will be after giving me the name of a friend of yours."
"Quite right," rejoined Claude, seizing the opportunity. "You were—nay, you are—a friend of mine. I am the little lad you carried in your arms—to whom you told stories, and sang songs. Children forget a great deal, but I have not forgotten you, Denis."
In dogged silence the old man turned his head away, intently bent on his sport, but suddenly he raised the cuff of his coat and wiped away a betraying tear. Seeing that he had touched the man's sympathy, Claude followed up his advantage.
"You are not going to deny me, Denis, are you?" he said entreatingly. "I am down here on an errand which you must guess. If Hilliston——"
"The curse of Cromwell on him!" said Kerry, under his breath.
"If Hilliston told you to keep silent," said Claude, affecting to take no notice of the interjection, which confirmed his suspicions, "I, the son of your dead master, want you to speak. I wish to find out who killed my father. I wish to punish him, for you know his name."
Kerry turned furiously on the young man, but it seemed to Claude that his anger was feigned to hide a deeper emotion.
"It is a dirty informer you'd have me be," he cried, with a stamp of his foot, "to betray him whose bread I eat. I'll tell you nothing, for it's that much I know."
"Denis——"