“Yes, sor.”
“Patsy!”
“Yes, Misther Fanshawe?” came a voice from beside the window.
“When his shoulders are through, mind and yell out ‘Right.’”
“You lave that to me, sir.”
Five minutes passed.
“Hounds meet here at ten to-morrow,” said Mr Fanshawe.
“Yes, sor.”
Mr Fanshawe moistened his lips. The awful composure of Mr Lyburn impressed him with an eerie sensation. The man did not seem to breathe or move; it was like being seated beside a statue. The smell of stable that came in waves, now faint, now more powerful, the mechanical voice, were beginning to tell on his nerves.