“Well, there’s Peter Bunkle for one, sir, as keeps ‘The Market Cross Inn’ over at Alfriston; there’s Mr. Levitt, and Tom Burgess and others besides.... There’s not a man of ’em dare stir out after dark.”
“I wonder!” murmured Sir John musingly. “I wonder!”
“You believe me, sir, I hope?”
“Implicitly, Bob! I do but cast about for a reasonable explanation.” And here fell silence again save for the plodding hoof-strokes of their horses, and an occasional gusty sigh from the ex-corporal, who, it seemed, was also busied with his thoughts. It was after a somewhat louder sigh than usual that Sir John addressed him suddenly: “How old are ye, Bob?”
“My age, sir,” answered Robert gloomily, “is forty-five, your honour.”
“I remember you were a boy when you marched to the wars with my father and Sir Hector.”
“Drummer in Sir Hector’s regiment, sir.”
“And a corporal when he bought you out. You ha’ been with me a good many years now, Bob.”
“Twenty-two, sir ... ever since you was a very small boy ... a lifetime! And during said time, your honour has treated me more like a ... a friend, sir, than a servant. Consequently I am to-day more your honour’s servant than ever. And I’m ... forty-five, sir!”