He had been by the fish-pond for an hour. But the fish had not shown
themselves inclined to bite, and he grew too impatient to remain.
Not altogether impatient at the wary fish, but in his own mental
restlessness. The fishing-rod was carried in his hand in pieces; and he
splashed along, in a brown study, on the wet ground, flinging himself
over the ha-ha with an ungracious movement. Some one was approaching
across the park from the house, and Lord Hartledon walked on to a gate,
and waited there for him to come up. He began beating the bars with the
thin end of the rod, and--broke it!
"That's the way you use your fishing-rods," cried the free, pleasant
voice of the new-comer. "I shouldn't mind being appointed purveyor of
tackle to your lordship."
The stranger was an active little man, older than Hartledon; his features
were thin, his eyes dark and luminous. I think you have heard his
name--Thomas Carr. Lord Hartledon once called him the greatest friend he
possessed on earth. He had been wont to fly to him in his past dilemmas,
and the habit was strong upon him still. A mandate that would have been
peremptory, but for the beseeching terms in which it was couched, had
reached Mr. Carr on circuit; and he had hastened across country to obey
it, reaching Hartledon the previous evening. That something was wrong,
Mr. Carr of course was aware; but what, he did not yet know.
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