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Varney slowly turned his head. In the doorway, to his dim surprise, stood Mr. Stanhope's man, Henry, bowing, unobtrusive, apologetic, ready to efface himself at a gesture like the well-trained servant he was. "Why is that you, Henry?" "Harskin' your pardon for the hintrusion, sir," said Henry with a wooden face. "I didn't know you were 'ere, sir.
Three of them closed in on me, sir, and harskin' your pardon, sir, I was whippin' hof 'em to standstill when one of them tripped me from be'ind, sir, " "Stand up, Henry," said Varney, rather agitated, "like the man you are." Henry stood up, with a jerky "Thank you, sir," striving with momentary ill-success to get a lackey's mask back upon that quivering face.
Stanhope!" said Henry with an insufferable contemptuousness for which he at once apologized. "Harskin' your pardon, sir I thought you inquired for my master. Mr. Stanhope, I 'ave 'eard, sir, has sailed for Europe." "Well, who's your master, then?" "Mr. Maginnis is my master, sir." Varney deliberated on this, and slowly smiled. "Well, you've got a good one, Henry." "Thank you, sir.
Then he heard swift footsteps in the hall, and divining what had happened, bounded out. "Stand clear, man!" cried Varney loudly. "I'm going out." A prolonged shouting indicated that the promise was heard with approval outside. But not so with Henry, who closed in on him fiercely, crying: "Not hon your bloomin' life, you don't harskin' your pardon, sir!"
"Harskin' your pardon, sir," gasped Henry, staggering into the room, "I'm honcertain whether 'e 's kilt or not. Struck down from behind by an old codger with long 'air and gray whiskers. Hi was at the gate " "But what do you mean by hauling the carcass in here? Do you think I'm running a private morgue?"
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