Presently
more figures moved up from the lanes and the churchyard path, till
thirty or more were huddled there, and their stealthy murmur of talk
distilled a rare savour of illicit joy. Unholy hilarity, indeed, seemed
lurking in the deep tree-shadow, before the wan Inn, whence from a
single lighted window came forth the half-chanting sound of a man's
voice reading out loud. Laughter was smothered, talk whispered.
"He'm a-practisin' his spaches." "Smoke the cunnin' old vox out!" "Red
pepper's the proper stuff." "See men sneeze! We've a-screed up the
door."
Then, as a face showed at the lighted window, a burst of harsh laughter
broke the hush.
He at the window was seen struggling violently to wrench away a bar.
The laughter swelled to hooting. The prisoner forced his way through,
dropped to the ground, rose, staggered, and fell.
A voice said sharply:
"What's this?"
Out of the sounds of scuffling and scattering came the whisper: "His
lordship!" And the shade under the ash-trees became deserted, save by
the tall dark figure of a man, and a woman's white shape.
"Is that you, Mr. Courtier? Are you hurt?"
A chuckle rose from the recumbent figure.
"Only my knee. The beggars! They precious nearly choked me, though."
CHAPTER VII
Bertie Caradoc, leaving the smoking-room at Monkland Court that same
evening,--on his way to bed, went to the Georgian corridor, where his
pet barometer was hanging.
Pages:
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53