The shabby stranger started, and the iris of his cunning eyes dilated and shrunk again in a somewhat feline fashion, as he asked eagerly,—
"What! were you the groom to Captain Devereaux who—well, occasionally—lived at Porthellick?"
"To the Right Honorable Lord Lamorna, if it is all the same to you," replied Derrick, stiffly.
"It is quite the same. What on earth is up! Is the sky about to rain larks, eh?"
"It is pouring a torrent anyhow, at this moment," was the dry response, as a fresh gust without clashed the leaves against the window-panes, and the cry of the red-legged Cornish chough, driven from his eyrie in the cliffs, was heard on the passing tempest.
"Where have you been all this time—nearly nine months, now?"
"That is too long a story to tell a stranger."
"And where is your master?"
"In his grave, God rest him!—in his grave, if the great sea can be called so."
"How long have you been in England?"