The two men stood and stared at Martin, who was dressed in a neat blue serge suit, obtained by post from York, the wildcat having ruined its predecessor. The older man, who reminded the boy of Mr. Stockwell, owing to the searching clearness of his gaze, said not a word; but the tall, sparsely-built soldier continued—for Martin civilly awaited his pleasure—
“Is your name, by any chance, Martin Court Bolland?”
The boy smiled.
“It is, sir,” he said.
“Are you—can you—that is, if you are not busy, you might show us the inn—and the farm?”
The gentleman seemed to have a slight difficulty in speaking, and his eyes dwelt on Martin with a queer look in them: but the answer came instantly:
“I’m sorry, sir; but I am going to the vicarage to tea, and you cannot possibly miss either place. The inn has a signpost by the side of the road, and the White House stands by itself on a small bank about a hundred and fifty yards farther down the village.”
The older gentleman broke in:
“That will be our best course, Colonel. We can easily find our way—alone.”
The hint in the words was intended for the ears that understood. Colonel Grant nodded, yet was loath to go.