There were voices in the saddle-room. One of the grooms crossed the yard whistling. She was still leaning her head against the old horse, and she waited. She did not want the men to stare at her and wonder; she did not want them to find her there.
"The master took out Black Rose, didn't he?"
"Yes. He's gone down the fields with his Lordship."
"Will he be riding her in the Hunt steeplechases?"
That was a stranger's voice, not one of Barnaby's servants.
"Can't say."—The stud groom was cautious.
"That's an ugly brute of his Lordship's. Why didn't he ride him here?" said another voice, joining in.
"He had to go somewhere in the motor, and so I'd orders to bring the horse over. It wasn't a job I envied," said Rackham's groom.
"If ever a horse was a devil, that one is," said the stud groom, laconically.
"Wants a devil to back him," muttered Rackham's man. "I never ride out of our yard without expecting he'll down me. Got a history, hasn't he?"