“Anyhow, it's all over now, and the credit of the bank is stronger than ever. I wish mine was. What's that man doing at the side of the gate?”
Cyril's voice had lowered as he asked the question. He touched his friend's arm as he spoke.
“Why, can't you see that that's Ralph Dangan? What's strange about a gamekeeper being at the entrance to the park?” said Westwood. Then, as the dog-cart passed, the man in corduroy, who was standing just inside the entrance gates, touched his hat. Westwood raised his whip-arm replying to his salutation, and cried, “Good evening to you, Ralph.”
Cyril also raised his finger, and nodded to the man. But having done so he drew a long breath.
Westwood laughed.
“'The thief doth think each bush an officer,'” he said, shaking his head at his companion.
“I've been an awful scoundrel, Dick,” said Cyril.
“I'm a polite man. I'll not contradict you,” said Westwood. “You have every reason to be afraid of poor Lizzie's father, especially as his employment makes it necessary for him to have a gun with him at all times. An angry father who is a first-class shot with a gun is a man to be avoided by the impulsive sweethearts of his daughter.”
“I can trust Lizzie,” said Cyril.
“At any rate, she trusted you. More's the pity!”