Raising himself, with a start, the man looked round. “No, my Lord, it is nothin’ to sinnify; honly, has I wos a reching hup to get the Don’s saddle, hit slipped, hand fell right hon my blessed nose, hand set hit a bleeding howdacious!”
“Did you obtain that genius, with the horse, from Tirrett?” inquired Harry, sotto voce; receiving a reply in the affirmative, he continued, “Then let me have a word or two with him in private—I think he may be made useful, but one never can get anything out of these fellows, except in a tête-à-tête.”
Lord Alfred nodded assent, and, feigning some plausible excuse, left the stable.
As soon as they were alone, Harry addressed the groom with an intelligent half-nod, half-wink, which, however ineffectual it might have proved in the case of a blind horse, produced a decided impression on the sharp-sighted Dick.
“Hark ye, my friend,” he began, “it strikes me you and I are old acquaintances.”
“Can’t say as I ever remembers setting heyes on your honour afore,” was the reply, though something in the expression of the man’s face contradicted his assertion.
“Did you never live with Count Cavalho, a Spanish nobleman?”
The man paused, then answered in a surly tone, “And suppose I did, what then?”
“Merely, that while I was in Paris, a groom in his employ was detected selling the corn and hay; the moment the charge was brought against him the fellow decamped, but the evidence of his dishonesty was so clear, that the Count offered a reward of fifty pounds for his apprehension; the man was not found, but I should know him by sight if I were to meet him,” and again Coverdale fixed his piercing glance upon his companion’s features.
Having paused for a minute, during which time the groom stood eyeing him furtively, and shifting uneasily from leg to leg—at the expiration of that period, Harry asked abruptly, “Why did young Tirrett strike you in that brutal manner, before he left the stable just now?”