"For a dem rebbit—O Ged!" exclaimed Lord Alton.
"You forget, Alton," interposed Mr. Dalroyd, languidly, "you forget, the rabbit may be a sheep next week, a horse the next, your purse the next and——"
"And this, sir, was merely a rabbit, I believe, which happens to be mine," said the Major, turning to glance at the speaker.
Mr. Dalroyd was tall and slim and pallidly handsome; from black periwig to elegant riding boots he was point-de-vice, a languid, soft-spoken, very fine gentleman indeed, who surveyed the Major's tall, upright figure, with sleepy-lidded eyes. So for a long moment they viewed each other, the Major serene of brow, his hands buried in the pockets of his threadbare Ramillie coat, Mr. Dalroyd cool and leisuredly critical, yet gradually as he met the other's languid gaze, the Major's expression changed, his black brows twitched together, his keen eyes grew suddenly intent and withdrawing a hand from his pocket, he began absently to finger the scar that marked his temple; then Mr. Dalroyd smiled faintly and turned a languid shoulder.
"Gentlemen," said he, "our sport is done, the play grows wearisome—let us be gone."
At this, Sir Oliver Rington approached the Major and in his eagerness tapped him on the arm with his whip.
"With your permission, Major, I'll see this rogue set in the stocks and after safely under lock and key. You'll prosecute, of course."
Very gently the Major set aside Sir Oliver's whip and limped over to the prisoner:
"He looks sufficiently young!" said he.
"A criminal type!" nodded Sir Oliver, "I've convicted many such—a very brutal, desperate rogue!"