"Base o' the throat, sir."
"Why have you never mentioned your suspicions, Zebedee?"
"Because, your honour, 'tis ever my tactics to let sleeping dogs lie—bygones is bygones and what is, is. If, on t'other hand Mr. Dalroyd's Captain Effingham which God forbid, then all I says is—what is, ain't. Furthermore and moreover Mr. Dalroyd would be the last man I'd ha' you cross blades with on account o' the Captain's devilish sword-play—that thrust of his in carte nigh did your honour's business ten years ago, consequently to-day I hold my peace regarding suspicions o' same."
"D'ye think he'd—kill me, Zeb?"
"I know 'twould sure be one or t'other o' ye, sir."
"And that's true enough!" said the Major and rode on again. "None the less, Zeb," said he after awhile, "none the less he shall have another opportunity of trying that thrust if, as I think, he is at the bottom of this vile business."
But now they were drawing near to Inchbourne village and, reining up, the Major glanced about him:
"What of our horses, Zebedee?" he questioned. "'Twill never do to go clattering through the village at this hour."
"No more 'twill, sir. Old Bet's cottage lieth a good mile and a half t'other side Inchbourne, d'ye see. Further on is a lane that fetcheth a circuit about the village—this way, your honour." So they presently turned off into a narrow and deep-rutted lane that eventually brought them out upon a desolate expanse with the loom of woods beyond.
"Yonder's a spinney, sir, 'tis there we'll leave our horses."