"Aye, I have studied his works with interest."
"Well, I named the mastiff after him; the intelligence of that dog, parson, was phenomenal. Ah, here we are at the lodge."
The drive-way terminated at the entrance gate, a large affair of massive iron bars, fancifully and artistically wrought at the top into intricate curves and flourishes. Huge square pillars of Cornish moor-stone surmounted at the top with the Trembath arms—a Lyonnesse warrior galloping amidst ocean waves—flanked the gate on either side and gave it desired support. Why the squire, or his father, had not removed the arms of his predecessor, replacing them with his own, is hard to tell. The whole gateway stood out like fret-work upon the background of the squire's woods beyond the highway, woods and trees of ancient standing, as scrupulously cared for as the members of the squire's own household.
Within the gate and close on one side, lovingly environed by beds of blooming gilli-flowers and marigolds, and almost concealed by enveloping masses of English ivy that affectionately embraced its walls, was a small, neat, stone cottage that bore the dignified name of "the Lodge." A man, still in the prime of life, was labouring assiduously over some strawberry beds in the rear.
"Ned, this way, please," shouted the squire, and Ned Pengilly, who acted in the double capacity of gardener and porter, dropping his hoe, hastened to comply. There was independence and respect for his master admirably blended in the demeanour of the gardener, as he stood before parson and squire.
"Ned, did you see Ande Trembath nigh the place of late? We want you to freshen up your memory and tell us when and how often you have seen him about the place of late."
"Well, I seed him going through the Manor woods—yesterday; 'e was whistling a tune, bright and cheery-like, and bid me the time of day as 'e passed the gate. We all likes young Squire Ande, as we calls 'im—no offence, squire, I 'opes;—we all calls 'im 'young squire' 'cause 'is grandfather was squire 'ere years ago, afore 'e turned for the French—which the lad can't 'elp."
"Which the lad can't help!" fairly thundered the squire, his wrath getting the better of him once more, no doubt fired at the term of young squire. "I suppose he couldn't help draining the fish pond? I suppose he couldn't help trampling the shrubbery? I suppose he couldn't help killing Borlase last night? Couldn't help——"
The latter part of this ebullition of passion died away in a hoarse growl of something like "blood will tell."
The effect upon the porter of this news of the killing of Borlase was most striking.