Then,
spreading it on her lap, she read the message aloud:--
"Evening paper says fatal accident to Mr. Barradine. Is this
true? Wire Dale, Appledore Temperance Hotel, Stamford Street,
S.E."
Then she jumped up, ran into the front room, and looked out of the
window. A glance showed her that the village was in possession of some
sensational tidings. There was a knot of people standing in front of
the saddler's, and another--quite a little crowd--in front of the
butcher's; all were talking excitedly, nodding their heads, and
gesticulating.
She ran down-stairs and joined the group at the saddler's.
"I never cared for the look of the horse," Allen was saying
sententiously. "And I might almost claim to have warned them--no
longer ago than last March. The stud-groom was riding him at a meet,
and I said, 'Mr. Yeatman, you aren't surely going to let Mr. Barradine
risk his neck with hounds on that thing?' 'No,' he said, 'Mr.
Barradine has bought him for hacking.' 'Oh,' I said, 'hacking and
hunting are two things, of course, but--'"
Then somebody interrupted.
"Chestnut horse, wasn't it?"
"Yes," said Allen, "one of these thoroughbred weeds, without a back
that you can fit with to anything bigger than a racing saddle; and
I've always maintained the same thing.
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