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Updated: June 15, 2025
Now tell me the only persons who, to your knowledge, have entered the 'Brand' since you have been engaged in this work." I answered him at once. "Colonel Ray, Lady Angela Harberly, Lord Blenavon, the Prince of Malors, and a young lady called Blanche Moyat, the daughter of a farmer in Braster at whose house I used sometimes to visit." Lord Chelsford referred to some notes in his hand.
Whatever his station in life may have been, he was not of the labouring classes, for his hands were soft and his nails well cared for. We laid him in the bottom of the wagon, and covered him over with a couple of sacks. John cracked the whip and strode along by the side of the horses. Blanche Moyat and I followed behind.
So I was ushered into the long low dining-room, with its old hunting prints and black oak furniture, and, best of all, with its huge log fire. Mrs. Moyat greeted me with her usual negative courtesy. I do not think that I was a favourite of hers, but whatever her welcome lacked in impressiveness Blanche's made up for.
Moyat," I answered, "and very kind of Miss Blanche to have thought of it. A week ago I shouldn't have hesitated. But within the last few days I have had a sort of offer I don't know whether it will come to anything, but it may. Might I leave it open for the present?" I think that Mr. Moyat was a little disappointed. He flicked the cob with the whip, and looked straight ahead into the driving mist.
"Blanche got you to change your mind?" he said, looking at me closely. "Miss Moyat hasn't tried," I answered, shaking him by the hand. "We were talking about something else." Blanche pushed past her father and came to let me out. We stood for a moment at the open door. She pointed down the street. "It was just there he stopped me," she said in a low tone.
What do you think, Mr. Ducaine?" I was more interested in the discussion than anxious to be drawn into it, so I returned an evasive reply. Mrs. Moyat nodded sympathetically. "Of course," she said, "you haven't seen the house except from the road, but I've been over it many a time when Mrs. Felton was housekeeper and the Duke didn't come down so often, and I say that it's a poor place for a Duke."
I caught a slow train, and after four hours of jolting, cold, and the usual third-class miseries, alighted at Rowchester Junction. Already I had started on the three mile tramp home, my coat collar turned up as some slight protection against the drizzling rain, when a two-wheeled trap overtook me, and Mr. Moyat shouted out a gruff greeting.
"I'm sure I don't know why." "I am not cross," I said, "but I do not wish you to feel unhappy about it." "I don't mind that," she answered, lifting her eyes to mine, "if it is better for you." The door opened and Mr. Moyat appeared. Blanche was obviously annoyed, I was correspondingly relieved. I rose at once, and took my leave.
Coming out of the post office I found myself face to face with Blanche Moyat. She held out her hand eagerly. "Were you coming in?" she asked. "Well, not to-day," I answered. "I am on my way to Rowchester, and I am late already." She kept by my side. "Come in for a few moments," she begged, in a low tone. "I want to talk to you." "Not the old subject, I hope," I remarked.
I am sorry that I ever asked you for one moment to keep your counsel about the fellow. I never saw him, I do not know who he was, I know nothing about him. And I don't want to, Miss Moyat. He may have been prince or pedlar for anything I care." "Well, he wasn't an ordinary person, after all," she declared, with an air of mystery. "Have you heard of the lady who's taken Braster Grange?
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