Several travellers had asked John what had become of Brean, but none had evinced more than a cursory interest in his whereabouts. He had not previously encountered Henry Stornaway, but he began to have a suspicion of his identity, and did his best to school his features to an expression of stolid stupidity. To every question put to him he returned evasive answers, and noted, with interest, Mr. Stornaway’s patent dissatisfaction with these. For some unexplained reason, Brean’s disappearance had discomposed this would be blood of the Fancy. Abandoning the lofty tone, he descended to cajolery; said, with a wink, that he and Brean were old acquaintances; and invited John, with one hand significantly jingling coins in his pocket, to tell him where Brean might be found.
“I don’t know, sir. He went off sudden-like,” John answered. “Leaving me to mind the pike,” he added. “I ain’t seen him since, nor heard of him.”
The pale eyes stared down into his; it struck him that there was less colour than ever in cheeks naturally sallow. “When did he leave his post ? You know that, at all events!’’
“Now, when would it have been?” pondered John, the very picture of bucolic stupidity. “Was it Friday night, or Saturday night?”
“Come, come, he didn’t go off in the night!”
“Oh, yes, sir! ’Deed he did! After dark it was,” John asseverated truthfully. He glanced at the chestnuts, reacting to an unquiet hand on the reins; “Horses on the fret, sir!” he suggested.
“Damn the horses! Who are you? How do you come to be here?”
“Name of Staple, sir: cousin of Ned Brean’s!”
“Oh! Well, it’s no concern of mine!” Henry said, and drove on, calling over his shoulder: “I’m only bound for the village, and shall be back in a few minutes! See you don’t keep me waiting!”
John shut the gate, looking thoughtfully after him. He found that Ben was at his elbow, and glanced down at him. “Who was that, Ben?”