By this time the man had probably found out that I was a lady—possibly even recognised me, as the Scart Bridge flys were sometimes used by the Wynyards for station-work. And in spite of his protest, he had slackened speed a little. This gave the occupant of the vehicle time to put his head out and ask questions—to the driver’s disgust no doubt, little suspecting that his hirer, the principal in the matter of catching the express, had no expectation whatever of doing so.
“What’s the matter?” he inquired.
“The lady says as there’s some one been and hurted hisself down the lane,” began the man. “We can send a man up from Hart’s Cottages,” and he pointed with his whip, “but if we stop, sir—”
“Stop!” was the interruption in imperative tones. “Of course we must,” and he jumped out as he spoke. “Follow us,” he said sharply to the driver, who thereupon proceeded to obey, murmuring some thing to the effect that the train would be gone, but that “it’ll be no fault o’ mine.”
“Nobody said it would be,” my companion called back, and then we walked on the few paces to where Moore was propped up in a half-sitting posture against the wall.
“I was as quick as possible,” said the stranger, though already he hardly seemed such. Circumstances sometimes lead to familiarity so quickly. “Is he all right—the boy; your brother?”
“Yes,” I said. “I don’t think the pain is very bad. I am sure you have been wonderfully quick, and I don’t know how to thank you. And how kind that poor Mr Grey has been!”
I felt my companion glance at me almost sharply.
“I told you,” he said, “that they are the kindest-hearted people possible. But—may I ask why you speak of him as ‘poor Mr Grey’?”
I was surprised, almost startled by the question. I had somehow taken it for granted, not only that this visitor was completely au fait of the Greys’ peculiar position, but that he must be aware that the mystery concerning the Grim House was common talk in the neighbourhood.