The farmer pushed back his chair angrily, and Mrs. Bolland wondered what he would say did he know of Martin’s wild extravagance. Mother and son were glad when John picked up a riding-whip and lumbered out to mount Sam, the pony, for an hour’s ride over the moor.
Evidently, he had encountered Benson before breakfast, as that worthy officer arrived at half-past ten and asked Martin to accompany him.
The two walked solemnly through the fair, in which there was already some stir. A crowd hanging around the precincts of the inn made way as they approached, and Martin saw, near the door, two saddled horses in charge of a policeman.
He was escorted to an inner room, receiving a tremulous, but gracious, smile from Evelyn as he passed. To his very genuine astonishment and alarm, he was confronted not only by the district superintendent of police but also by Mr. Frank Reginald de Courcy Beckett-Smythe, the magnate of the Hall.
“This is the boy, your wuship,” said Benson.
“Ah. What is his name?”
“Martin Court Bolland, sir.”
“One of John Bolland’s sons, eh?”
“No, sir. Mr. Bolland has no son. He adopted this lad some thirteen years ago.”
Had a bolt from the blue struck Martin at that moment he could not have been more dumbfounded. Both John and Martha had thought fit to keep the secret of his parentage from his knowledge until he was older, as the fact might tend to weaken their authority during his boyhood. The adults in Elmsdale, of course, knew the circumstances thoroughly, and respected Mr. and Mrs. Bolland’s wishes, while the children with whom he grew up regarded him as village-born like themselves.