"Sharp about it, I said. I'm not used to giving the same order twice."
"And I am not used to having my servants ordered about by strangers," exclaimed a deep, well-modulated voice. "Since your business seems urgent perhaps you will kindly state it."
The speaker was a tall, finely built man of about forty years of age. His features were clear cut, his brow lofty, and his jaw massive. He was clean shaven, revealing a pair of tightly pursed lips. His complexion was pale, his eyes of a deep blue colour and set rather wide apart beneath a pair of bushy, overhanging brows. Across his forehead was a horizontal scar of old standing, showing white even in contrast to his greyish complexion. His hair was dark brown tinged with grey and growing high upon his temples.
"We called to ask for assistance," began Athol. "Our motor-bike——"
"Mechanical breakdown?" asked the occupier of the premises.
"No; we're snowed up, and the side-car wheel has given out," announced the lad.
"H'm; well, I'm glad it isn't an engine fault," remarked the stranger. "Had it been you would have had no sympathy from me. A fellow who cannot tackle a refractory engine ought not to be allowed in charge of one on the road. Where's your bike?"
"About a hundred yards down the hill and in a snow-drift," replied Athol. "We did our level best but the snow was too much for us. We thought, perhaps, that we might find someone who has a horse——"
"Horse," repeated the man. "It will want something better than a horse, I'm thinking. Open those gates, Harvey, and look sharp about it. Come in, both of you. I'll be with you in a couple of minutes."
He gave the lads an approving smile as they both walked past the bulldogs without the faintest hesitation. Then he disappeared up the path, while the gatekeeper, having opened and unfastened the massive portal, vanished between the laurel hedges.