CHAPTER II.—THE JACOBITE.
‘Where did you place the saddle-bags, Derrick?’ asked Sir Carnaby, when Hobb Dipping had quitted the old wainscoted apartment in which his distinguished visitor was about to partake of supper.
Speech was a gift which nature had bestowed very sparingly upon the attendant; moreover, he was possessed of a rough, unmelodious voice. Pointing towards a chair in one corner, he slowly ejaculated: ‘There, sir—underneath.’
‘Good!’ said Sir Carnaby, seating himself at the table.—‘By the way, Derrick, I think it would be just as well to look after the innkeeper: his glances are a trifle too curious to please me. When I have finished my supper, you had better descend into the public room and try to ascertain his opinion of us.’
‘Right, sir,’ replied the attendant.
‘Come from behind my chair, you varlet,’ said the baronet, motioning him at the same time with his hand. ‘Draw up to the table and break your fast with me; we shall gain time by so doing.’
Derrick sat down respectfully at the farther end of the board, and gazed in a thoughtful way at a dark patch of sky which could be seen through the diamond-shaped panes of glass in a window opposite him.
‘You seem in no hurry to refresh the inner man,’ remarked Sir Carnaby. ‘What are you thinking of, Derrick?’
‘A dream, sir.’
‘A what?’
‘A dream, sir,’ repeated Derrick—‘one I had last night.’
‘Well, as your mind appears to be somewhat uneasy,’ remarked Sir Carnaby, with a slight smile playing over his features, ‘I should recommend open confession as being the proper thing to relieve it.’
‘There’s little enough to tell, sir,’ said Derrick; ‘’twas only a bit of dark sky up there that brought it back to me.’
‘Well,’ said Sir Carnaby simply.
‘It seemed to me,’ continued the attendant, ‘as if I was riding alone, holding your horse by the bridle. The moon was up, and the sky looked the same as it does out there. I can remember now quite plain that I felt kind of troubled, but what about, I know just as little as you, sir.’
‘Is that the whole story?’ asked Sir Carnaby with a laugh. ‘Well, I can tell you, good Derrick, so far as riding alone goes, your prophecy is likely to prove a true one, though I certainly don’t intend you to carry off my horse with you.—See here; this is something more important than a heavy-headed dream. You must start to-morrow for the Grange. Be in the saddle early, and don’t spare your spurs.’
‘Am I to go alone, sir?’
‘Certainly. The journey has no object beyond the delivery of this letter; and as inquiry is sure to be pretty rife concerning me, I shall stay where I am and await your return.’
Derrick received the sealed envelope which was handed to him with a gruff but respectful ‘Right, sir,’ and then relapsed into his customary silence.
‘I shall leave it to your discretion to find out the way,’ said Sir Carnaby. ‘Of course you will go armed?’
The attendant opened his coat without speaking and touched the hilt of a stout hanger which he wore at his side.
Sir Carnaby smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said; ‘you are ready enough to play at blood-letting; but that sort of thing is best avoided. Let your movements be as quiet and speedy as possible; and when you reach your destination, seek out Captain Hollis by means of that address. Give the note into his hands, then make haste back. I shall have other work for you when you return.’
‘More plots,’ thought Derrick, but he merely uttered a grunt and pocketed the letter.
‘This room,’ continued the baronet, ‘seems to be parlour and bedchamber in one. So far well. If there should be any occasion to consult me again before you start, one rap at this door will be quite sufficient to wake me. I am a light sleeper.’
‘Anything more, sir?’
‘Nothing more to-night; you have all my orders for the present.—Good-night, Derrick.’
‘Good-night, sir.’
When the last faint clank of Derrick’s boots has ceased to ring upon the staircase, Sir Carnaby Vincent rises and locks the door, glancing outside first, to see that no one lurks without. This being done, he carefully bars the shutters over the window, looks inside two cupboards which the room contains, and then having ascertained that he is not likely to be overlooked, draws forth the afore-mentioned saddle-bags. A strange look of anxiety passes over the fugitive’s face as he plunges his hand into one of them, and brings out a small, shallow, oaken box, black with age. Its contents are apparently of no little value, for the lid is secured by two locks, and a corresponding number of blotchy red seals, upon which may be deciphered the impression of a crest. Sir Carnaby turns the box over and examines its fastenings, then rises and walks slowly round the room, as if in search of something. His manner at this moment is most strange, and the light step with which he treads over the old flooring does not awaken enough creaking to disturb a mouse. Four times round the room he goes, with a curious expression on his face which would puzzle even a skilful physiognomist to interpret, then stooping down, he places the box on the floor and appears to listen.