A handsome, fair man was speaking. He looked pale for a country dweller, and indeed his business kept him much within doors; for he was a footman at Middlecott Court. His eyes were blue, his face was long, and his features regular. He spoke slowly and with little accent, for he had copied his master’s guests carefully and so mended the local peculiarities of his speech. “’Tis said without doubt, Sweetland, that the burglars must have been helped by somebody--man or maid--who knew the house and grounds. What did Bartley here think when first he heard about it?” The footman turned to a thin, weak-faced, middle-aged person who sat next to him. Luke Bartley was a policeman, at present off duty, and a recent burglary of valuable plate was the subject they now discussed. Mr Bartley had a feeble mouth and shifty eye. He avoided the gamekeeper’s scowling glance and answered the footman. “Well, we must judge of folks by their records. I don’t say Dan Sweetland’s ever been afore the Bench; but that’s thanks to his own wicked cleverness. His father may flash his eyes at me; but I will say that taking into account Dan’s character an’ pluck an’ cheek, I ban’t going to rule him out of this job. He might have helped to do it very easily. He knows Westcombe so well as anybody, and his young woman was under-housemaid in the house till a week afore the burglary. Well, I won’t say no more. Only ’tis my business as a police constable to put two and two together; which I shall do, by the help of God, until I be promoted. Besides, where was Daniel that night?” “He was fishing on the Moor,” said another man--a young and humble admirer of Daniel Sweetland. “So he may have told you; but what’s his word worth?” Then the youth, who was called Prowse, spoke again and turned to the footman. “Anyway, it ban’t a very seemly thing of you, Titus Sim, to say a word against Dan; for ’tis well known that you was after Minnie Marshall yourself.” Titus Sim grew paler than usual and turned roughly on the youngster. “What fool is this! And impertinent with it! You ought to go back to school, Samuel Prowse. ’Tisn’t right that you should talk and drink with grown men, for you’re too young to see a joke apparently. D’you think I don’t know Daniel better than you? D’you think I’d breathe a word against him--the best friend I’ve got in the world? Of course he had no hand in the burglary at Westcombe. If I thought he had--but it’s a mad idea. He’s got his own sense of honour, and a straighter man don’t walk this earth. As to Miss Marshall--she liked him better than she liked me; and there’s an end of that.” “I’m sorry I spoke, then,” said Dan’s young champion. “I beg your pardon, Titus Sim.” “Granted--granted. Only remember this: I’m Dan’s first friend, and best and truest friend, and he’s mine. We’m closer than brothers, him and me; and if I make a joke against him now and then, to score against Bartley here, it’s friendship’s right. But I’ll not let any other man do it.”