“Robert Foxwell, Esquire,” added the man, quietly, “who came into this county from London about two years back, is the particular gentleman I mean.”
“Ay, there’s only one,” replied the Squire, gloomily, “only one Foxwell in this county now. He’s the last of the name.”
“Pardon me, sir,” said the other, delicately, “but if I dared take the liberty, I should judge from your manner that you’re not a friend of his.”
“By the lord, you’re a good judge!” said Thornby, without hesitation.
“Thank you very humbly, sir. If I might take the further liberty of asking whether he’s a man of—ah—any considerable wealth to speak of, nowadays—”
“He’s as poor as a church mouse, and I’m not sorry to say it.”
“I’m rather sorry to hear it,” said the man, looking gravely into his pot of ale. “Oh, not on his account, sir: on my own. I’m purely selfish in my sorrow, sir. The truth is, I had something to sell him.”
“Well, friend,” said the Squire, taking a seat near the table’s end where the traveller was, “if it’s something of any value that you have to sell, my advice is to look for another customer.”
“The trouble is,” replied the man, musingly, “this that I have to sell wouldn’t be of any value to anybody but Mr. Foxwell—unless to his enemies.”
The last words were spoken very softly, as if they represented a meditative afterthought of no practical utility. The man continued to keep his eyes lowered from meeting the Squire’s, and a thoughtful pause ensued.