The man was Jim Hawkins, Mr. Spavin's groom.
"Is 'Wild Buffalo' here?" asked Victor.
"Yes, sir; as safe and as comfortable as if he'd been foaled here."
"And none the worse for his journey?"
"Not a bit of it, sir. I brought him down by easy stages, knowing you wanted him kept fresh. And fresh he is—oncommon. P'raps you'd like to have a look at him."
"I should."
The groom led Mr. Carrington to a loose box, and the surgeon had the pleasure of beholding the bay horse by the uncertain light of a stable lantern.
The animal was, indeed, a noble specimen of his race.
It was only in the projecting eye-ball, the dilated nostril, the defiant carriage of the head, that his evil temper exhibited itself. Victor Carrington stood at a little distance from him, contemplating him in silence for some minutes.
"Have you ever noticed that spot?" asked Victor, presently, pointing to the white patch inside the animal's hock.