Nance had very earnestly told me the old, sad tale, to impress
the spot on my mind, for the long lane up to Ellerton Grange began in the
shadows just beyond the monument, and wound away up the slope to the
right. The road carried us up where the moon-light fell on meadows that
were almost lawns, and across them to a maze of buildings. A minute later,
I leaped off Sultan and hammered away at the studded oaken door of
Ellerton Grange.
No man came to my summons, and I sent a second volley of rat-tats echoing
through the house before I heard a shuffling of feet within and a drawing
of big bolts. The door crept open for a foot or so, and an old man's head,
with a lantern trembling over it, appeared in the gap.
"Who's there?" he quavered.
"Wheatman of the Hanyards," I answered; "but my name is nothing to the
purpose and my business is. I must see Sir James Blount."
"He's abed," said he, "hours ago!"
"Then fetch him out!"
The old man pushed his lantern close to my face and straightened himself
to take a fair look at me. He had sunken cheeks and toothless gums, and
hairless eyes with raw, red lids, and out of all question was some
ancient, rusty serving-man, tottery and slow, but quick-minded enough, and
of a dog-like faithfulness to the hand that fed him.
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