About its
grounds the company went into hiding.
Harry came down from his tree in a hurry and, like an honest man, took to
the high road. It was, you know, his one uncommon capacity to go easily
at a round pace. He did his best along the road and down the lane and,
though he caught a glimpse of a coat here and there, unchallenged he came
up the drive and across the garden to the door of the house. He had
hardly knocked before he was being inspected through a peep-hole. The
door was opened and instantly shut behind him. He was in darkness dimly
lit by one candle. The windows had their shutters closed and barred.
"What's your will, sir?" says the man who let him in.
"The master of the house, if you please," Two other men lounged
into the hall.
"And your name, sir?"
"You may say that I came from Captain McBean."
The man appeared to think it over. "That's true enough, faith," says
another, advancing out of the shadow. Harry recognised one of the solemn
seconds of the duel, Patrick O'Connor. "Will I serve your turn, sir?"
"If you're master here."
"I am not. Come on now." He led the way to a room where a cadaverous man,
richly dressed, sat huddled over a fire. "'Tis a gentleman from the
captain, my lord. Mr. Boyce, my Lord Sale."
Harry bowed.
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