Just then a faint cry of “Coming, sir, coming,” was heard, and a long hobble-de-hoy kind of youth, whose business it was to look after the not extensive Castle stables, emerged in a great heat from round the corner of the house.
“Now, where on earth have you been?” began the Squire, in a stentorian tone.
“If you please, sir, Mr. George——”
“There, what did I tell you?” broke in the Squire. “Have I not told you time after time that you are to mind your own business, and leave ‘Mr. George’ to mind his? Now take that horse round to the stables, and see that it is properly fed.
“Come, Quest, come in. We have a quarter of an hour before luncheon, and can get our business over,” and he led the way through the passage into the tapestried and panelled vestibule, where he took his stand before the empty fireplace.
Mr. Quest followed him, stopping, ostensibly to admire a particularly fine suit of armour which hung upon the wall, but really to gain another moment for reflection.
“A beautiful suit of the early Stuart period, Mr. de la Molle,” he said; “I never saw a better.”
“Yes, yes, that belonged to old Sir James, the one whom the Roundheads shot.”
“What! the Sir James who hid the treasure?”
“Yes. I was telling that story to our new neighbour, Colonel Quaritch, last night—a very nice fellow, by the way; you should go and call upon him.”