“Pardon me, sir,” said the other, delicately, “but if I dared take the liberty, I should judge from your manner that you’re not a friend of his.”
“By the lord, you’re a good judge!” said Thornby, without hesitation.
“Thank you very humbly, sir. If I might take the further liberty of asking whether he’s a man of—ah—any considerable wealth to speak of, nowadays—”
“He’s as poor as a church mouse, and I’m not sorry to say it.”
“I’m rather sorry to hear it,” said the man, looking gravely into his pot of ale. “Oh, not on his account, sir: on my own. I’m purely selfish in my sorrow, sir. The truth is, I had something to sell him.”
“Well, friend,” said the Squire, taking a seat near the table’s end where the traveller was, “if it’s something of any value that you have to sell, my advice is to look for another customer.”
“The trouble is,” replied the man, musingly, “this that I have to sell wouldn’t be of any value to anybody but Mr. Foxwell—unless to his enemies.”
The last words were spoken very softly, as if they represented a meditative afterthought of no practical utility. The man continued to keep his eyes lowered from meeting the Squire’s, and a thoughtful pause ensued.
“Enemies? What the devil—?” said the Squire in his mind. But presently he broke forth in his blunt manner, “Lookye, my man, you may speak freely to me if you be so minded. I’m all for plain-dealing, I am. My name is Thornby,—anybody can tell you how Thomas Thornby, of Thornby Hall, Justice of the Peace, stands in this county. Anybody can tell you whether he’s to be trusted or not. What’s all this here about Mr. Foxwell and his enemies? It concerns me, by the lord, for I’m at least no friend of his, I can tell you that much and not betray any secrets, neither.”
“Why, then, sir,” said the other, his face lighting up as though a happy idea had that instant occurred to him, “you might be a better customer for what I have to sell than Mr. Foxwell himself.”
“By the lord, I’m able to pay a better price,” said the Squire, with frank self-gratulation.
“Do you know anything of Mr. Foxwell’s history, sir?” asked the stranger.
“I know that he was born at Foxwell Court, the old seat of the family in this country; that he was sent away to school when young, and then to Oxford, and after that travelled in foreign parts. Fine way to bring up an Englishman! When he did come back to his own country, he thought best to live in London, and he never darkened his father’s door in those days: there wasn’t any love lost between him and his people here in their lifetime, I’ve heard. Howe’er that be, he wasn’t seen hereabouts, so I never set eyes on him till he came back to the Foxwell estate to live, about two years since, after squandering a fortune his uncle left him—so the story goes. That’s all the history I know of him.”