"Now, slug-a-bed," he said, "you have ten minutes for your breakfast,
then you will foot it to the Hall and see whether Sir Willoughby has
returned or is expected."

Turning on his heel, he went out to harry his laborers.

Desmond, when he came down stairs, felt too sick to eat. He gulped a
pitcher of milk, then set off for his two-mile walk to the Hall. He was
glad of the errand. Sir Willoughby Stokes, the lord of the manor, was an
old gentleman of near seventy years, a good landlord, a persistent
Jacobite, and a confirmed bachelor. By nature genial, he was subject to
periodical attacks of the gout, which made him terrible. At these times
he betook himself to Buxton, or Bath, or some other spa, and so timed his
return that he was always good tempered on rent day, much to the relief
of his tenants. He disliked Richard Burke as a man as much as he admired
him as a tenant; but he had taken a fancy to Desmond, lent him books from
his library, took him out shooting when the weather and Richard
permitted, and played chess with him sometimes of a rainy afternoon. His
housekeeper said that Master Desmond was the only human being whose
presence the squire could endure when the gout was on him. In short, Sir
Willoughby and Desmond were very good friends.

Desmond had almost reached the gate of the Hall when, at a sudden turn of
the road, he came upon a man seated upon a low hillock by the roadside,
idly swishing at the long ripe grass with a cane. At the first glance
Desmond noticed the strangely-clad right hand of his overnight
acquaintance; the shabby clothes, the red feather, the flaming neckcloth.

The man looked up at his approach; the winning smile settled upon his