“Do ’ee hear, me boy?” The Squire’s voice came clear and straight now into his agitated consciousness. “Will you do me the favour of ringing the bell? There! Just in front of ’ee!”

Wolf rose and rang the bell, and sank down once more into the depths of the leather chair. As he did so he was aware of a rattling at both the mullioned casements. The wind was rising, then? Let it rise! Let the rain pour down. It would please Mukalog, in his kitchen-drawer over there, to hear this sound.

The tall gardener had his black coat on when he entered the room, and his air was the air of a privileged majordomo in a noble house.

“Get my paper and pens, Roger, and my chequebook, out of my study, please. Oh, and one thing more! Here, you’ll want my keys for that”⁠—and he began fumbling in his pockets.

“A bottle of port, Sir?” suggested the servant.