“Are these they?” And Hart read:
One thing is certain in our Northern land;
Allow that birth, or valor, wealth, or wit,
Give each precedence to their possessor,
Envy, that follows on such eminence,
As comes the lyme-hound on the roebuck’s trace,
Shall pull them down each one.
“Yes,” said Grant.
“Love isn’t mentioned. The fair Doris will be true. You’re in luck, my boy. But somebody is out for your blood, and here is clear warning. Gee whizz! If I remain in Steynholme a week I shall become an occultist. What is a lyme-hound?”
“‘Lyme,’ or ‘leam,’ is the old-time word for ‘leash.’”
“Good!” said Hart. “That will appeal to Furneaux. Have him in to dinner every day, Jack. He’s a tonic!”
Furneaux, for some reason known only to himself, did not accompany Doris to the post office. Once they were across the bridge, and the broad village street, more green than roadway, was seen to be empty, he tapped her on the shoulder and said pleasantly:
“Run away home now, little girl. Sleep well, and don’t worry. The tangle will right itself in time.”
“Poor Mr. Grant is suffering,” she ventured to murmur.
“And a good thing, too. It will steady him. Hurry, please. I’ll wait here till you are behind a locked door.”