The social standing of this competent-looking man puzzled him hugely. Curiosity and admiration, too, struggled within him like dogs on a leash, while good manners kept a faltering hold on the string. “Excuse me, sir,” he added, reddening, “if I am impertinent.”
“Not at all, sir,” replied the other; “my name is Rhys Walters.” This information seemed to convey something to the younger man, for he opened his eyes very wide and looked eagerly at his companion.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “then you are Walters of Great Masterhouse.” Then he reddened again as he remembered that he was talking to a farmer whom he did not know, and had omitted the “Mister.”
“At your service,” said Rhys.
“It’s surprising to find you lost,” observed Harry, treading as accidentally upon the truth as if it had been a lady’s dress.
Rhys smiled, this time internally. Like a devout lover he loved strategy, even more for herself than for what she might bring him.
“I have heard that you know your way in places where no one else does,” continued young Fenton.
“Masterhouse is so near the mountain that one has to be pretty sharp these dark nights. But I’ve been baffled this time. However, I have a suspicion where we are now. With your leave, sir, I’ll go with you for a little and put you on the right track.”
“I should like that very much,” said Harry, gratefully, “but my home and yours lie so far apart that it would be taking you much out of your road.”