Well, it's a pretty story, but--your master wouldn't approve of it.

Supposing he were not killed, I mean." "It's a waste of time, sir, disapproving of what's done: he might think the story better than the truth, although it's not a good story." The two men's eyes met again in a long glance.
"Where do you come from ?" asked Sapt, suddenly.
"London, sir, originally." "They make good stories there ?" "Yes, sir, and act them sometimes." The instant he had spoken, James sprang to his feet and pointed out of the window.
A man on horseback was cantering towards the lodge.

Exchanging one quick look, both hastened to the door, and, advancing some twenty yards, waited under the tree on the spot where Boris lay buried.
"By the way," said Sapt, "you forgot the dog." And he pointed to the ground.
"The affectionate beast will be in his master's room and die there, sir." "Eh, but he must rise again first!" "Certainly, sir.

That won't be a long matter." Sapt was still smiling in grim amusement when the messenger came up and, leaning from his home, handed him a telegram.
"Special and urgent, sir," said he.
Sapt tore it open and read.

It was the message that I sent in obedience to Mr.Rassendyll's orders.