The Maid-At-Arms: A Novel

by Robert W. Chambers

"This is my friend, Mr. Covert," said Mount, fairly sweating cordiality from every pore--"my dear old friend, Mr. Covert--"

"Oh," said Beacraft, "I thought he was Sir George Covert.... And yonder stands your dear old friend Timothy Murphy, I suppose?"

"Exactly," smiled Mount, rubbing his palms in appreciation.

The man gave me an evil look.

"I don't know you," he said, "but I could guess your business." And to Mount: "What do you want?"

"We want to know," said I, "whether Captain Walter Butler is lodging here?"

"He was," said Beacraft, grimly; "he left yesterday."

"And I hope you like my sto-ry!"

hummed Mount, strolling about the room, peeping into closets and cupboards, poking under the bed with his rifle, and finally coming to a halt at the foot of the stairs with his head on one side, like a jay-bird immersed in thought.

Murphy, who had quietly entered the cellar, returned empty-handed, and, at a signal from me, stepped outside and seated himself on a chopping-block in the yard, from whence he commanded a view of the house and vicinity.