"I told you," he said, "that they are the kindest-hearted people
possible. But--may I ask why you speak of him as `poor Mr Grey'?"
I was surprised, almost startled by the question. I had somehow taken
it for granted, not only that this visitor was completely _au fait_ of
the Greys' peculiar position, but that he must be aware that the mystery
concerning the Grim House was common talk in the neighbourhood.
"Oh!" I replied, rather lamely, "because, of course, everything about
them seems so strange and sad!"
There was no time for him to reply, for we had now reached Moore, and at
once set to work to get him into the fly, which drew up at the place
where we stopped, the driver, rather snubbed by the very peremptory tone
assumed by his "fare," was much on the alert to obtrude his benevolent
instincts.
"Dear, dear!" he exclaimed. "It's a bad business. I'm afraid there's
bones broke! Did you fall far, sir?" he went on, to Moore, evidently
anxious to get all the information he could for the delectation of his
cronies at the White Hart, or whatever was the name of the inn. But
before Moore replied, our friend in need did so for him.
"You don't need to fall far to sprain your ankle," he remarked quickly,
"and I hope it is nothing worse than that. A slip on level ground is
quite enough sometimes."
"Yes," I agreed; "indeed I often wonder that we hold together as we do,
considering our complicated bones and joints."
The driver, imagining himself gifted with great discrimination,
evidently thought we were trying to encourage Moore, and took his cue
accordingly.
"Young bones ain't so hard to mend as old ones," he said
philosophically, as he closed the door; "and where shall I drive to if
you please?"
"To Mr Wynyard's--the Manor-house," I answered promptly, and off we
set, this time at a moderate speed, all thought of train-catching
eliminated from our conductor's mind.