"'Twasn't the dog-cart kept us, Squire. 'Twas listening to a strange-looking gentleman; a man with a white beard and a red umberellar. He were talking about Trevlyn Hold, saying it belonged to Master Rupert, and he were going to help him to it."
Chattaway turned away his face. Instinct taught him that even this stolid serf should not see the cold moisture that suddenly oozed from every pore. "What did he say?" he cried, in accents of scorn.
Hatch considered. And you must not too greatly blame the exaggerated reply. Hatch did not purposely deceive his master; but he did what a great many of us are apt to do—he answered according to the impression made on his imagination. He and the rest of the listeners had drawn their own conclusions, and in accordance with those conclusions he now spoke.
"He said for one thing, Squire, as he didn't like you——"
"How does he know me?" Mr. Chattaway interrupted.
"Nora Dickson asked him, but he wouldn't answer. He's a lawyer, and——"
"How do you know he's a lawyer?" again interrupted Mr. Chattaway.
"Because he said it," was the prompt reply. And the man had no idea that it was an incorrect one. He as much believed the white-bearded stranger to be a lawyer as that he himself was a day-labourer. "He said he had come to help Master Rupert to his rights, and displace you from 'em. Our hairs stood on end to hear him, Squire."
"Who is he?—where does he come from?" And to save his very life Chattaway could not have helped the words issuing forth in gasps.
"He never said where he come from—save he hadn't been in England for many a year. We was a wondering among ourselves where he come from, after he walked off with Nora Dickson."