"He seemed verra oneasy when I told him I'd set eyes on naebody the day lang. I tauld him ye must hae gone the ither road."
"I missed my way."
"Aye, 'twas that made ye sae late. And sae ye arena acquent wi' the man? 'Tis verra strange."
Yes, it was very strange. The more Gray thought of it the more alarming it seemed. And then quite suddenly an explanation came to him, which, while it did not remove the annoyance of the occurrence, robbed it of all its more alarming elements. The explanation was this:—
Lumley had evidently conceived an absurd dog-like affection for him. The fellow had not taken his refusal to have him as a servant as a final one, and was following him in the hope that he might still be taken on. He had not dared to come face to face with Gray. Perhaps when he had entered the room at Mr. Stuart's (for Gray was now convinced that it was Lumley he saw) he intended to make one more appeal, but Gray's sudden wakening had startled him too much.
Gray's face cleared as he forced himself to accept this explanation as the true one. He stretched himself with the air of one who throws off a burden.
"I'll turn in," he said, yawning as he spoke. "But I'll have another look at my horse first."
"Aye, do, my lad. But ye needna feel oneasy aboot your horse. Sandy here"—and he looked down at the old sheep-dog at his knee—"wull hear ony step that comes near the house, be it e'er sae saft."
Gray shuddered as his glance fell on the dog. He was looking up at his master just as Watch used to look at Harding.
"Ye arena that fond o' dogs," said the old man quickly. He had noticed Gray's look. "But Sandy's nae common dog. I could tell you mony a tale o' his cleverness."