"What the devil do you mean, Hugo?"

"Young ebony's right, sir," chuckled Harvey; "'tis the devil and his
following."

"Do you mean Mr. Grafton, fellow?" I demanded, the unwelcome truth coming
over me.

"That he does," remarked Harvey, laconically. "You won't be wanting her
now, your honour?"

"Hold my stirrup," I cried, for the news had put me in anger. "Hold my
stirrup, sirrah!"

I believe I took Firefly the best of thirty miles that afternoon and
brought her back in the half-light, my saddle discoloured with her sweat.
I clanked into the hall like a captain of horse. The night was sharp
with the first touch of autumn, and a huge backlog lay on the irons.
Around it, in a comfortable half-circle sat our guests, Grafton and Mr.
Allen and Philip smoking and drinking for a whet against supper, and Mrs.
Grafton in my grandfather's chair. There was an easy air of possession
about the party of them that they had never before assumed, and the sight
made me rattle again, the big door behind me.

"A surprise for you, my dear nephew," Grafton said gayly, "I'll, lay a
puncheon you did, not, expect us."

Mr. Carvel woke with a start at the sound of the door and said
querulously, "Guests, my lord, and I have done my poor best to make them
welcome in your absence."