The girl was giving the dog a final pat on the neck, when it suddenly raised its head, opened its eyes wildly and stared right away, uttering a long, low howl, ending in a mournful whine.

"Really," exclaimed Mrs Hampton, "he must not do that or you must have him moved, Gertrude."

The dog seemed to sink into an uneasy sleep, and Gertrude followed Mrs Hampton into the drawing-room.

"Ought we to take any steps about George?" said Gertrude, after a pause; "to find out whether he has gone with Saul Harrington?"

"No, my dear, certainly not. He has a perfect right to do as he pleases. He will, as I said before, no doubt write."

Gertrude was silent, and crossed to a writing-table to busy herself over sundry domestic accounts, while Mrs Hampton took out her knitting and glanced at her from time to time, as her needles clicked and flashed in their rapid plying.

"And a good thing if he has gone," she said to herself. "If I could do as I liked, he'd have his money and go to Jericho or any other place, so long as he did not come and worry her."

By this time Gertrude's attention was taken up by her accounts, and her countenance looked comparatively calm and peaceful.

"Love him?" said Mrs Hampton. "She does not even like him, only fights hard to do what she has been told."

The day pa.s.sed quietly enough in the drawing-room, but the sudden departure of the owner of The Mynns formed a topic of conversation among the servants. John Season, the gardener, came in for what he called "just a snack" about twelve o'clock, the said snack being termed lunch; but as John, a dry-looking gentleman with a countenance like a piece of ruddy bark, did not dine at quality hours, the snack served as dinner and saved him from going home, beside being an economy, as cook was not particular about his making a sandwich to wrap in his red cotton pocket-handkerchief "again he felt a bit peckish." Not that he ever did feel a bit peckish after the hearty snack, for his sandwich was pecked by the four young Seasons at home.

John's making of that sandwich was artistic and exact, for the slices of cold beef were always fitted on to the bottom slice of bread with the regularity to be expected of a man who kept a garden tidy. The top slice, as if from absence of mind, was also covered with slices to the same degree of exactness, and then after a liberal sprinkling of the sanitary salt, and spreading of the mordant mustard, these two slices were placed close together at the cut edge.

Now, to some unpractised hands a difficulty would here have arisen--how to get those two slices together without letting the beef get out of place.

But John Season was not unpractised.

Some people would have solved the problem by cutting two more slices of bread, and clapping them on the top. But that would have looked grasping. John was allowed by cook to cut himself a sandwich. That would have looked like cutting two sandwiches. True, there was the beef for two sandwiches there; but then it did not appear to be so to the casual observer, and as bread was fairly plentiful at home, while beef was not, John got over the difficulty in a way which salved his conscience and the cook's.

On this particular morning, John had been very busy eating, with his mouth so full that he did not care to talk. The beef was sirloin, and the prime thick, streaked, juicy undercut, with its marrowy fat, had been untouched. The knife was sharp, and John had eaten and carved his sandwich till he had laid down the keen blade with a sigh, gazing at his work, and then at the gla.s.s of beer freshly drawn for his use.

"Yes?" he said to the cook and housemaid, to take up a thread of conversation which had been lying untouched for twenty minutes; "he came home with his head queer, did he?"

"Yes, and bleeding," said the housemaid. "I dunno where he'd been."

"I do," said John, altering the position of one of his beef-laden slices, so that it should be exactly parallel with the other, and one inch away.

"You do, John?" said the cook, with her eyes wide open.

"Yes. Under the laurels half asleep. I see him."

"But he hadn't been out?" said the housemaid.

"Not he."

"Then how did he get that cut on the head?" said the housemaid.

"I know," cried cook triumphantly.

"How?"

"Climbing the wall after a cat, and then he tumbled off on to the bricks."

"Oh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the housemaid, s.n.a.t.c.hing at the explanation.

"Wrong," said John Season, untying and retying his blue serge ap.r.o.n, as a necessity after his hearty meal.

"Then, pray how was it, Mr Clever?" said cook.

"He'd been interfering with master in the dark. Didn't know him, I s'pose; and master give him a polt with a stick."

"Oh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the housemaid.

"But why should he interfere with master?" said cook, who felt annoyed at her solution being so ruthlessly set aside.

"Because he was a good dog," said John, taking a sip from his gla.s.s, and moving his chair a little, as he thought, with a sigh, about the big piece of lawn he had to sweep in the hot sun.

"A good dog to fly at his master!" exclaimed cook, rolling her arms in her ap.r.o.n.

"He's only a new master that he don't know well, and don't much like,"

said John sententiously; "and he sees him coming out of the window in the middle of the night."

"Oh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the housemaid again.

"'Burglars!' says Bruno. If you remember, his bark always sounds like saying burglars."

"Yes; I've always noticed that," said the housemaid, emphasising the last word.

"Fiddle!" said cook contemptuously.

"Ah, you may say fiddle," said John, taking out his red handkerchief, and slowly spreading it upon his knees, "but that's it. Sees him coming down from the stairkiss window, and goes at him; master gives him one on the head, and Bruno feels sick, and goes and lies down among the laurels."

"And who says master went out of the stairkiss window," said cook with a snort, "when there's a front door to the house as well as a back?"

"I did, my dear, and you needn't be cross."

"Enough to make any one cross to hear folks talk rubbidge. Pray, how do you know he went out that way?"

"Ah!" exclaimed the housemaid, as much as to say "that's a poser."

"Because I had to take the rake and smooth out the footmarks, as was a eyesore to a gardener who takes a pride in his place," said John with a satisfied smile.

"You did, John?" said cook, giving way directly, and lowering her voice as she drew nearer the speaker, and poured him out another gla.s.s of ale.

"Thankye, my dear. Yes; same as I've done before."

"But why should he get out of the window on the sly like that?"

"Larks!" said John Season, giving one eye a peculiar c.o.c.k. "Why do young men get out of other windows o' nights, eh?"

"Well, of all!" exclaimed the housemaid.