"In Strelsau?" came in quick question from Sapt.
"He won't mind where, sir."
"True, he won't mind, and we needn't mind for him."
"Why, no, sir. But to carry a body secretly from here to
Strelsau--"
"Yes, that is, as we agreed at the first, difficult. Well, it's a
pretty story, but--your master wouldn't approve of it. Supposing
he were not killed, I mean."
"It's a waste of time, sir, disapproving of what's done: he might
think the story better than the truth, although it's not a good
story."
The two men's eyes met again in a long glance.
"Where do you come from?" asked Sapt, suddenly.
"London, sir, originally."
"They make good stories there?"
"Yes, sir, and act them sometimes."
The instant he had spoken, James sprang to his feet and pointed
out of the window.
A man on horseback was cantering towards the lodge. Exchanging
one quick look, both hastened to the door, and, advancing some
twenty yards, waited under the tree on the spot where Boris lay
buried.
"By the way," said Sapt, "you forgot the dog." And he pointed to
the ground.
"The affectionate beast will be in his master's room and die
there, sir."
"Eh, but he must rise again first!"
"Certainly, sir.
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