He promised readily.
“Bardek is a gypsy, I think; but he doesn’t travel. He lives in the old mill in Cresheim Valley. I ride in the mornings, you know, very often alone. He talks to me in French and tells me how to say things.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Three years.”
“Since you were ten?”
“Yes; that’s when I got ‘Gyp.’”
“‘Gyp’ is a horse?”
“Yes.”
“Cresheim Valley in the mornings is a rather lonely spot, eh?”
“Yes; that makes it fine! There’s absolutely not a soul about between seven and eight. If anyone comes, I step into the old mill.”