“Enemies? What the devil—?” said the Squire in his mind. But presently he broke forth in his blunt manner, “Lookye, my man, you may speak freely to me if you be so minded. I’m all for plain-dealing, I am. My name is Thornby,—anybody can tell you how Thomas Thornby, of Thornby Hall, Justice of the Peace, stands in this county. Anybody can tell you whether he’s to be trusted or not. What’s all this here about Mr. Foxwell and his enemies? It concerns me, by the lord, for I’m at least no friend of his, I can tell you that much and not betray any secrets, neither.”
“Why, then, sir,” said the other, his face lighting up as though a happy idea had that instant occurred to him, “you might be a better customer for what I have to sell than Mr. Foxwell himself.”
“By the lord, I’m able to pay a better price,” said the Squire, with frank self-gratulation.
“Do you know anything of Mr. Foxwell’s history, sir?” asked the stranger.
“I know that he was born at Foxwell Court, the old seat of the family in this country; that he was sent away to school when young, and then to Oxford, and after that travelled in foreign parts. Fine way to bring up an Englishman! When he did come back to his own country, he thought best to live in London, and he never darkened his father’s door in those days: there wasn’t any love lost between him and his people here in their lifetime, I’ve heard. Howe’er that be, he wasn’t seen hereabouts, so I never set eyes on him till he came back to the Foxwell estate to live, about two years since, after squandering a fortune his uncle left him—so the story goes. That’s all the history I know of him.”
“I can vouch for the truth of one part, sir,—as to squandering his money in town. I had hoped perhaps his affairs had improved since he retired from fashionable life.”
“But what of his history? I’ve told you all I know. What do you know?”
The Squire leaned forward toward the traveller with an almost painful expression of eagerness on his face.
“Why, sir,” said the other, as if with some reluctance, “as you are good enough to take an interest, I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell you a little story. I dare say you remember the affair of Lord Hilby,—him that was murdered by footpads one night in Covent Garden.”
“I heard of it at the time,” said the Squire, “’twas two or three years ago.”