“No, my lord,” the coachman said hesitatingly. “Then — then — shall I drive on?”
“Of course drive on,” said the gentleman, faintly surprised.
“Very good, my lord,” the coachman said, and shut the door.
The groom on the box was still clasping the blunderbuss, and staring fascinated at the tumbled figure in the road. When the coachman climbed up on to the box again, and gathered the reins in his hands, he said: “Gawd, ain’t you going to do anything?”
“There isn’t anything you can do for him,” replied the other grimly.
“His head’s almost shot off!” shuddered the groom.
The equipage began to move forward. “Hold your tongue, can’t you? He’s dead, and that’s all there is to it.”
The groom licked his dry lips. “But don’t his lordship know?”
“Of course he knows. He don’t make mistakes, not with the pistols.”
The groom drew a deep breath, thinking still of the dead man left to wallow in his blood. “How old is he?” he blurted out presently.