well. However, he'll take you over to the house. It's getting dark."
Leigh shivered. He was nervous, he was cold, and the thought of eating in a stable disgusted him.
"Thank you," he said. "It doesn't matter at all." He shivered again, as he noticed how Renny rubbed yellow soap on his hands regardless of the raw knuckle.
Rags set the tray on the desk. He arranged the things on it with the air of a liveried butler putting the last touches on a table laid for a banquet. He lifted the cover from a silver dish and disclosed three thick slices of buttered toast.
"Bit of a juggler I am, sir," he said, "getting the tr'y acrost in a blizzard like this and never sloppin' so much as a drop."
"Good for you," observed his master, sitting down before the tray and pouring himself a cup of tea. "But this is no blizzard. It's nothing but a fresh wind. It's good for you." He took a large bite of toast with relish.
Now, thought Leigh, is the time to tackle him. He said: "There's something I'd like to talk to you about, Mr. Whiteoak—by ourselves. I can find my way to the house without any trouble, really. I—I simply want to ask you something—explain something—that is" He felt like a stammering schoolboy.
Renny looked surprised, but he said: "Yes? If there's anything I can do Very well, Rags, you needn't wait for Mr. Leigh."
"It's about Finch," began Leigh, slowly, feeling his way, like a man in the darkness of a strange wood. "I'm very fond of him."
"Yes," returned Renny, the alert interest in his eyes changing to polite attention, "Finch has often spoken of you." Again his expression changed, this time to a stare at the inquisitive little cockney, who blinked back at him for a moment and then slid out of the room with a kind of impudent servility.
As the door closed behind him, words came more easily to Leigh. "I think, sir, that Finch"—he had the good sense to use moderation in his statement—"is really a
