“No, it’s all right, old man; I can manage.”
He pulled himself up and laughed because he hit his knee upon the mudguard.
“It’s good to be home, Sam.”
“Yes; I expect your mother will be glad, sir,” answered Geddes, touching up the horse. “And so will we all, I’m thinking.”
They clattered down the road, and the high spirits of the wounded warrior rose. He asked a thousand questions, and insisted on taking the reins before they had gone far. It was dusk when they began to draw near Wodehurst; a sudden silence had fallen on Giles. The steward realized the reason. He coughed uncomfortably. They were passing within a hundred yards of Wodehurst Church. Suddenly he said in his deep burr:
“We were all very sorry, sir, about Master Robin.”
The eyes of the soldier softened; he murmured:
“Poor old chap!”
“I feel I ought to tell you, sir. It was a very queer thing. But one day that young Mr. Lawson—you know, the sculptor—about a week after it all happened, he must have got up at daybreak, I should say—nobody saw him do it. He must have gone down there to the churchyard with his tools, and what do you think? He carved something on the stone—on Mr. Robin’s stone.”
Giles said quickly: “Carved! What?”