“Let me see,” he said, sharply; “he was to be married the other day, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, sir,” said Thompson, with a peculiar look as he held the sovereign in his pocket, and ran a finger nail round the milled edge.
“What do you mean by that, sir?” cried the major suspiciously, and the stick was raised again. “Wasn’t he married?”
“Well, he may have been since, sir, but that other didn’t come off.”
“What?”
“Well, sir, the fact is, master was going to be, but there was a little trouble, sir, about another lady who lived in these parts, and when it come out about the wedding as was to be very quiet in London, there was a bit of a fuss.”
“Humph! well, that is nothing to me, my man. I made a mistake, and I ask your pardon.”
“It’s all right, sir, and thank you kindly,” said Thompson. “It was Ben Hayle’s daughter, sir, Miss Judith, who used to be at The Warren before they were sent away.”
The major had turned his back to go, but the man’s words arrested him, and, in spite of himself, he listened.
“Ben Hayle come to Long’s, sir, in Bond Street, where we was staying, and got to see master. I was packing up, because master was going on the Continong next day, and there was a tremenjus row, all in whispers like, because I was in the next room, but Ben Hayle got louder and louder, and I couldn’t help hearing all the last of it.”