“Is it possible!”
“I know and can prove his age as certainly as my own. He is the son of an Arab mare and an English thoroughbred.—Come here, Memnon!”
The horse, who had been standing behind like a servant in waiting, put his beautiful head over his master’s shoulder.
“Memnon,” said Mr. Skymer, “go home and tell Mrs. Waterhouse I hope to bring a gentleman with me to lunch.”
The horse walked gently past us, then started at a quick trot, which almost immediately became a gallop.
“The dear fellow,” said his master, “would not gallop like that if he were on the hard road; he knows I would not like it.”
“But, excuse me, how can the animal convey your message?—how communicate what he knows, if he does understand what you say to him?”
“He will at least take care that the housekeeper look in his mane for the knot which perhaps you did not observe me tie in it.”
“You have a code of signals by knots then?”
“Yes—comprising about half a dozen possibilities.—I hope you do not object to the message I sent! You will do me the honour of lunching with me?”