"Confound it! I'm late!" said Piers, throwing his leg over his horse's
neck. "It's all that brute's fault. Look at him grinning! Better wash him
one of you! He can't come in in that state." He slipped to the ground and
stamped his sodden feet. "I'm not much better off myself. What a beastly
night, to be sure!"
"Yes, you're wet, sir!" remarked the groom at Pompey's head. "Had a
tumble, sir?"
"No. Had a jug of water thrown over me," laughed Piers. "Caesar will tell
you all about it. He's been sniggering all the way home." He snapped his
fingers in the dog's complacent face. "By Jove!" he said to him, "I
couldn't grin like that if I'd had the thrashing you've had. And I
couldn't kiss the hand that did it either. You're a gentleman, Caesar,
and I humbly apologize. Look after him, Phipps! He's been a bit mauled.
Good-night! Good-night, Pompey lad! You've carried me well." He patted
the horse's foam-flecked neck, and turned away.
As he left the stable-yard, he was whistling light-heartedly, and Phipps
glanced at a colleague with a slight flicker of one eyelid.
"Wonder who chucked that jug of water!" he said.
CHAPTER II
CONCERNING FOOLS
In the huge, oak-panelled hall of the Abbey, Sir Beverley Evesham
sat alone.
A splendid fire of logs blazed before him on the open hearth, and the
light from a great chandelier beat mercilessly down upon him.
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