He turned back toward the fire, while Clarke stood a moment with clenched hand and a malignant look creeping into his eyes; then, following the Indian, the doctor silently moved forward across the muskeg.
CHAPTER XIII
A STAUNCH ALLY
On a dark November morning, when a blustering wind drove the rain against the windows, Thomas Foster sat stripping the lock of a favorite gun in the room he called his study, at Hazlehurst, in Shropshire. The shelves on the handsome paneled walls contained a few works on agriculture, horse-breeding, and British natural history, but two racks were filled with guns and fishing-rods and the table at which Foster was seated had a vise clamped to its edge. He had once had a commodious gun-room, but had given it up, under pressure from his wife, as Hazlehurst was small and she had numerous guests, but the study was his private retreat. A hacksaw, a few files, a wire brush, and a bottle of Rangoon oil were spread out in front of him, the latter standing, for the sake of cleanliness, on the cover of the Field.
Foster laid down his tools and looked up with an air of humorous resignation as his wife came in. Mrs. Foster was a slender, vivacious woman, fond of society.
"Put that greasy thing away for a few minutes and listen to me," she said, sitting down opposite him.
"I am listening; I'm inclined to think it's my normal state," Foster answered with a smile. "The greasy thing cost forty guineas, and I wouldn't trust it to Jenkins after young Jimmy dropped it in a ditch. Jenkins can rear pheasants with any keeper I've met, but he's no good at a gun."
"You shouldn't have taken Jimmy out; he's not strong enough yet."
"So it seems; he gave us some trouble in getting him back to the cart after he collapsed in the woods. But it wasn't my fault; he was keen on coming."
Mrs. Foster made a sign of agreement. Jimmy was her cousin, Lieutenant
Walters, lately invalided home from India.