"Yes."
"Good sport, sir?"
"No," answered Sir Reginald, curtly.
"Show the way to the parlour, Jane," said the landlord to a
chambermaid, or barmaid, or girl-of-all-work, who emerged from the tap-
room with a tray of earthenware mugs. "There's one gentleman there,
sir; but perhaps you won't object to that, Christmas being such a
particularly busy time," added the landlord, addressing Reginald.
"You'll find a good fire."
"Send me some brandy," returned Sir Reginald, without deigning to make
any further reply to the landlord's apologetic speech.
He followed the girl, who led the way to a door at the end of a
passage, which she opened, and ushered Sir Reginald into a light and
comfortable room.
Before a large, old-fashioned fire-place sat a man, with his face
hidden by the newspaper which he was reading.
Sir Reginald Eversleigh did not condescend to look at this stranger. He
walked straight to the hearth; took off his dripping coat, and hung it
on a chair by the side of the roaring wood fire. Then he flung himself
into another chair, drew it close to the fender, and sat staring at the
fire, with a gloomy face, and eyes which seemed to look far away into
some dark and terrible region beyond those burning logs.
He sat in this attitude for some time, motionless as a statue, utterly
unconscious that his companion was closely watching him from behind the
sheltering newspaper.
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