He snuffled a little, and eyed the flushed but silent Chilter with mingled reproach and scorn. “However, my coachman assures me he could swear to the horse again, although he cannot remember much about the man himself. Chilter! How did he describe the horse?”
“Oh—er—chestnut, Mr. Fudby—chestnut, with a half-moon of white on its forehead, and one white foreleg.”
Jack perceived that it was time he took a hand in the game. He half turned in his chair and levelled his quizzing-glass at Mr. Chilter.
“I beg your pardon?” he drawled.
Mr. Fudby’s eye brightened. The fine gentleman was roused to an expression of interest at last. He launched forth into his story once more for my lord’s benefit. Carstares eyed him coldly, seeing which, Mr. Hedges came hurriedly to the rescue.
“Er-yes, Mr. Fudby—quite so! Your pardon, sir, I have not the honour of knowing your name?”
“Ferndale,” supplied Jack, “Sir Anthony Ferndale.”
“Er-yes———” Mr. hedges bowed. “Pray pardon my importuning you with our———”
“Not at all,” said my lord.
“Not—quite so——— The fact is, these—er—gentlemen have had the—er—misfortune to be waylaid on their journey here.”
Sir Anthony’s glass was again levelled at the group. His expression betokened mild surprise.
“All these gentlemen?” he inquired blandly. “Dear, dear!”
“Oh, no, no, no, sir! Not all! Only Mr.—er———”
“Fudby,” said that worthy, and discovered that Sir Anthony was bowing frigidly. At once he rose, and resting his knuckles on the table before him, bent his body slowly and painfully. Sir Anthony inclined his head, whereupon, to the delight of all the rest, Mr. Fudby bowed again with even greater stateliness than
