Jim Stelfox was a man about forty-five years of age, rather above the medium height, with an open, honest, and withal resolute-looking face, and a straightforward look of the eyes which spoke of obstinacy as well as honesty. His hair, which was still thick, was iron-grey; so were his trim whiskers. His eyes were grey also, hard and keen; his mouth was straight, and shut very firmly.
He waited, with his eyes fixed upon his master, respectfully, to be interrogated.
“How many years have you been in my employment, Stelfox?” asked Mr. Bradfield.
“Seventeen years, sir.”
“And how many years is it now since you’ve had charge of Mr. Richard?”
“Ten years, sir, on and off; and seven years altogether,” answered Stelfox.
Mr. Bradfield’s manner grew harsher, more dictatorial with every succeeding question, almost as if each answer of the man’s had been a fresh offence. But Stelfox’s manner never changed; it was always respectful, stolid and studiously monotonous. The next question Mr. Bradfield put in a louder, angrier voice than ever.
“And have you ever, in the course of all that time, known Mr. Richard do any harm to man, woman or child?”
For about two seconds the man did not answer; two seconds in which Chris, rendered curious by something in the manner of master and man towards each other, awaited quite eagerly some astonishing reply. She was disappointed. The answer came as smoothly and quietly as ever: