It was Felton. Yet not the same Felton whose surreptitious visit to the rectory had been cut short by Mr. Clode. A few weeks of idleness and drinking, a month or two at the Bull and Staff had much changed the once sleek and respectable servant. Had he gone to the rectory for help now, his tale could not have passed muster even for a moment. His coat had come to hang loosely about him, and he wore no tie. His hands were dirty and tremulous, his eyes shifty and bloodshot. His pasty face had grown puffy and was stained with blotches which it was impossible to misinterpret. He had gone down the hill fast.
Seeing his old master before him he began to whimper, but the lawyer cut him short. “This man, who says he was formerly your servant, has come to me with a strange story, Lord Dynmore,” he said.
“Ten to one it’s a lie!” replied the peer, scowling darkly at the poor wretch.
“So I think likely!” Mr. Bonamy rejoined with the utmost dryness. “However, what he says is this: that when he landed in England without a character he considered what he should do, and, remembering that he had heard you say that Mr. Lindo the elder, whom he knew, had been appointed to this living, he came down here to see what he could get out of him.”
“That is likely enough!” cried the peer scornfully.
“When he called at the rectory, however, he found Mr. Lindo, the younger, in possession. He had an interview with him, and he states that Mr. Lindo, to purchase his silence, undertook to pay him ten shillings a week until your return.”
“Phaugh!” my lord exclaimed in astonishment.
The servant mistook his astonishment for incredulity. “He did, my lord!” he cried passionately. “It is heaven’s own truth I am telling! I can bring half a dozen witnesses to prove it.”
“You can?”
“I can, my lord.”