Chapter Twenty Two.
In the Fog.
“Murder! Now for a row,” thought the groom, as, to his horror, he saw in the moonlight, instead of the barouche and pair with Lady Lisle inside, the dogcart, down from which Sir Hilton was stepping, helped by Syd, while a second dogcart was coming up the drive with a lady on the seat and a big heavy man leading the horse, and the gate clicking loudly as it swung to and fro.
“Beg pardon, Sir Hilton,” cried Mark, eagerly. “Didn’t know you meant to come back to-night. Thought I’d run over and see if all was right at home.”
“Humph!” grunted the baronet, entering the porch and reeling slightly as he raised one hand to his head.
“Steady, uncle!” cried Syd. “Mind the cob, Mark. Lead him away, but come back and take Mr Simpkins’s nag too.”
The boy turned to meet the big, burly man, who drew his vehicle up to the door and stopped to look back.
“Can you help her down, youngster—my boy, I mean?”
“Yes, all right, sir.”