"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 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!"
