‘Why,’ said Barbara, ‘this is very strange. You call him Jasper, and he named you Martin.’
‘Ah!’ said the man hesitatingly, ‘we are chance travellers, riding along the same road. He asked my name and I gave it him—my surname. I am a Mr. Martin—he mistook me; and in exchange he gave me his Christian name. That is how I knew it. If anyone asks about this event, you can say that Mr. Martin passed this way and halted awhile at your house, on his road to Tavistock.
‘You are going to Tavistock?’
‘Yes, that is my destination.’
‘In that case I will not seek to detain you. Call up Doctor Crooke and send him here.’
‘I will do so. You furnish me with an additional motive for haste to depart.’
‘Go,’ said Barbara. ‘God grant the poor man may not die.’
‘Die! pshaw! die!’ exclaimed Martin. ‘Men aren’t such brittle ware as that pretty sister of yours. A fall from a horse don’t kill a man. If it did, fox-hunting would not be such a popular sport. To-morrow, or the day after, Mr. Jasper What’s-his-name will be on his feet again. Hush! What do I hear?’
His cheek turned pale, but Barbara did not see it; he kept his face studiously away from the light.
‘Your horse which you hitched up outside neighed, that is all.’