Barnes, entered eagerly into our plans for the extirpation of the fish of the neighbourhood.
“What about the Hall lake and the chance of a pike?” said Holmes.
The face of the innkeeper clouded.
“That wouldn’t do, sir. You might chance to find yourself in the lake before you were through.”
“How’s that, then?”
“It’s Sir Robert, sir. He’s terrible jealous of touts. If you two strangers were as near his training quarters as that he’d be after you as sure as fate. He ain’t taking no chances, Sir Robert ain’t.”
“I’ve heard he has a horse entered for the Derby.”
“Yes, and a good colt, too. He carries all our money for the race, and all Sir Robert’s into the bargain. By the way”—he looked at us with thoughtful eyes—“I suppose you ain’t on the Turf yourselves?”
“No, indeed. Just two weary Londoners who badly need some good Berkshire air.”
“Well, you are in the right place for that. There is a deal of it lying about. But mind what I have told you about Sir Robert. He’s the sort that strikes first and speaks afterwards. Keep clear of the park.”
“Surely, Mr. Barnes! We certainly shall. By the way, that was a most beautiful spaniel that was whining in the hall.”
“I should say it was. That was the real Shoscombe breed. There ain’t a better in England.”
“I am a dog-fancier myself,” said Holmes. “Now, if it is a fair question, what would a prize dog like that cost?”
