“You know him, then?” demanded he in an altered tone.
“Well, e-e’s! a leetlish bit only. He be one o’ my customers, and have his drink occasional as he passes by here. I know his horse a bit better mayhap. That be a anymal worth the knowin’. I’ve seed him clear that geeat—it be six-feet-high—moren once, wee’ve seed him do it. Ha’nt we, lads?”
“That we have, Master Jarvis,” replied several of the bystanders, to whom the appeal had been made.
“E-ees, indeed, great coronel,” continued the landlord, once more addressing his speech to the captain of cuirassiers, “an’ if yer fellows want to folla him, they maun be up to ridin’ cross country a bit, or else—”
“His name!” eagerly interrupted the officer, “You know where the knave lives?”
“Not exactly—neyther one nor t’other,” was the equivocal reply. “As for his name, we only knows him ’bout here as the Black Horseman, an’ that he belong som’ere among the hills up the Jarret’s Heath way—beyond the great park o’ Bulstrode.”
“Oh! he lives near Bulstrode, does he?”
“Somer bot theer, I dar say.”
“I know where he lives,” interposed one of the rustics who stood by. “It be a queery sort o’ a place—a old red brick house; an’ Stone Dean be the name o’t. It lie in the middle o’ the woods ’tween Beckenfield an’ the two Chaffonts. I can take ye theer, master officer, if ye be a wantin’ to go.”
“Jem Biggs!” said the landlord, sidling up to the last speaker, and whispering the words in his ear, “thee be a meddlin’ ’ficious beggar. If thee go on such a errand, don’t never again show thy ugly mug in my tap room.”