When he tried the scullery door, and would have moved on, Hilary intervened. He’d borne mention of the woman’s name. “You found the cabochon? After all these years?” He asked, incredulous. Jove, he didn’t take to it kindly, I can tell you. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. Here he was preparing to leap over the hedge into the fields on the left, when he was intercepted by two horsemen, who, hearing the shouts, rode up and struck at him with the butt-ends of their heavy riding-whips. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes.
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