Nic sprang to the window, to see Mr Dillon, followed by five of his men, three blacks, and seven or eight dogs, among which were three gaunt, grey, rough-haired, Scottish deer-hounds.
The boy had expected that Mr Dillon would come, but his sister’s words staggered him and gave him a sharp pang.
The next moment, though, he saw that she was wrong; and turning from the window, he exchanged glances with Janet, as he said quite coolly, “What does he want so soon?” and made for the door, thinking that he knew well enough that they were on a man-hunting expedition, but congratulated himself on the convict’s long start.
“Good morning, Mr Dominic,” said the magistrate, riding up, while the two collies ran on to investigate the strange dogs, and Nibbler tore furiously at his chain.
“Good morning, sir,” said Nic. “Here, Rumble—rumble! Come here, both of you! Hi, Samson! Shut these two dogs up in one of the sheds.”
“Yes,” said the visitor, “or there’ll be a fight.” Then, as Sam came running up and relieved Nic of his task of holding the pair by their black frills, “Will you be good enough to walk a little way from the house, young man? I want a word or two with you.”
“He can’t know I was there,” thought Nic; and he walked beside the visitor’s horse till it was checked, and the rider looked down sharply at the boy.
“Now, young gentleman,” he said, “I don’t want to quarrel with your father’s son, but I am a man who never allows himself to be played with. You played me a pretty trick last night.”
“I, sir? How?”
“Do you want telling?”