“By heavens, from the way you said that one would fancy there had been a murder,” he cried.
Then there was a long pause, which was broken by Markham.
“You still intend to go out to dine with that man you met yesterday?” he said.
“Don't call him a man, Oswin; you wouldn't call a bishop a man, and why call a king one. Yes, I have ordered a horse that is said to know the way across those Flats without a pocket compass.”
“Where did you say the house was?”
“It's near a place called Rondebosch. I remember the locality well, though it's ten years since I was there. The shortest way back is through a pine-wood at the far end of The Flats—you know that place, of course.”
“I know The Flats. And you mean to come through the pine-wood?”
“I do mean it. It's a nasty place to ride through, but the horse always goes right in a case like that, and I'll give him his head.”
“Take care that you have your own at that time,” said Markham. “The house of the Irishman is not like Colonel Gerald's.”
“I hope not, for a more thirsty evening I never spent than at your friend's cottage. The good society hardly made up for the want of drink. It put me in mind of the story of the man that found the pearls when he was starving in the desert. What are bishops and kings to a fellow if he is thirsty?”