"Well?" said Roland, dangling the goose in his hand, as unblushingly as though it had been a bouquet of choice flowers.
"Well?" returned Mr. Butterby. "How are you, sir? I heard you were down here."
"Ay. I've come to set things straight that I left crooked. And glad to be able to do it at last. You've heard about me, I suppose, Butterby?"
"I've heard," assented Butterby. "You are Sir Roland Yorke, and have come into the family estates and honours, through the untimely death of Sir Vincent. A lucky shot for you, sir."
"Lucky?" groaned Roland. "Well, in one sense I suppose it was: but don't go and think me a heartless camel, Butterby. I declare to you that if I could bring Sir Vincent back, though I had to return to my work again, and the turn-up bedstead at Mrs. J.'s, I'd do it this minute cheerfully. When I sat by, watching him die, knowing he was going to make room for me, I felt downright wicked: almost as bad as my nice brother must have felt, who shot him. Did you read about it in the newspapers?--they had got it all as pat as might be. I can't think, for my part, how they lay hold of things."
Butterby nodded assent. There was little he did not read, if it could in the remotest degree concern him.
"I'm paying up, Butterby. Paying everybody, and something over. If ever I get into debt again call me an owl. Galloway groans and grunts, and says I shall; but I fancy he knows better. What do you think? He took his hat off to me in the street yesterday! formerly he'd hardly nod to me over his shoulder sideways."
"How were the folks up yonder, Sir Roland, when you left?" asked Butterby, jerking his head in the direction of London. "Is Miss Rye all right?"
"Oh, she's uncommon jolly. The last day I called there, Mrs. J. said she supposed she and Winter--they call him Winter now--would be making a match of it. Upon that, I told Miss Rye I'd buy her the wedding dress. Instead of being properly grateful, she advised me not to talk so fast. I say, Butterby, that was a mistake of yours, that was--the taking her into custody for the one that killed John Ollivera."
"Ay," carelessly returned Mr. Butterby, with a kind of sniff. "The best of us go in for mistakes, you know."