Belford jumped up. “Are you—going, sir?”
Anthony nodded.
“But what—what are you goin’ to—to do about me? About what I told you, sir?”
Anthony looked down benignly. “Nothing.”
Belford’s mouth fell open. “Nothing! Nothing? But——”
“What I mean, Belford, is this. I’ll keep you out of trouble. You’ve told me one thing that makes all your confession of nothing worth while. You may, later on, have to give evidence; but that’s the worst you’ll have to do as far as I’m concerned. And don’t worry. And for the Lord’s sake don’t walk about as you’ve been doing lately, looking like Charles Peace with a bellyache.”
The little man smiled all over his wizened face. Anthony looked at him curiously. Somehow, when talking to him as a man and not a servant, one found something so far from being sly as to be almost lovable.
Anthony gave the narrow shoulders a reassuring pat and strolled away, making for the house. He had covered perhaps twenty yards when he stopped, turned on his heel, and walked back.
Belford was seated again on his log. His face was buried in his hands. Anthony stood looking down at him.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.