The young man's eyes followed the direction indicated by the grimy
thumb; a red-faced groom in familiar livery was kneeling beside a dog's
travelling crate, attempting to unlock it, while behind the bars an
excited white setter whined and thrust forth first one silky paw then
the other.

The young man watched the scene for a moment, then:

"Are you one of Mr. Ferrall's men?" he asked in his agreeable voice.

The groom looked up, then stood up:

"Yis, Sorr."

"Take these; I'm Mr. Siward--for Shotover House. I dare say you have room
for me and the dog, too."

The groom opened his mouth to speak, but Siward took the crate key from
his fingers, knelt, and tried the lock. It resisted. From the depths of
the crate a beseeching paw fell upon his cuff.

"Certainly, old fellow," he said soothingly, "I know how you feel about
it; I know you're in a hurry--and we'll have you out in a second--steady,
boy!--something's jammed, you see! Only one moment now! There you are!"

The dog attempted to bolt as the crate door opened, but the young man
caught him by the leather collar and the groom snapped on a leash.

"Beg pardon, Sorr," began the groom, carried almost off his feet by the