but I suppose he was a leader among them, they did not, and in a
moment we were outside. Three paces through the darkness took us
to the stable, an offset at the back of the inn. My man twirled
the pin, and, leading the way in, raised his lanthorn. A horse
whinnied softly, and turned its bright, mild eyes on us--a
baldfaced chestnut, with white hairs in its tail and one white
stocking.

'There!' my guide exclaimed, waving the lanthorn to and fro
boastfully, that I might see its points. 'What do you say to
that? Is that an undersized pony?'

'No,' I answered, purposely stinting my praise. 'It is pretty
fair--for this country.'

'Or any country,' he answered wrathfully. 'Or any country, I
say--I don't care where it is! And I have reason to know! Why,
man, that horse is--But there, that is a good horse, if ever you
saw one!' And with that he ended--abruptly and lamely; lowered
the lanthorn with a sudden gesture, and turned to the door. He
was on the instant in such hurry to leave that he almost
shouldered me out.

But I understood. I knew that he had neatly betrayed all--that
he had been on the point of blurting out that that was M. de
Cocheforet's horse! M. Cocheforet's COMPRENEZ BIEN! And while I
turned away my face in the darkness that he might not see me
smile, I was not surprised to find the man in a moment changed,
and become, in the closing of the door, as sober and suspicious
as before, ashamed of himself and enraged with me, and in a mood