The Parson had forgotten Dover. Chatham, the Admiralty, Merton! in his note he had urged Beauchamp to send messengers post-haste to all three; but Dover!
"That's all right," he called calmly. "I've a galloping express half- way there by now, thank ye."
The other shook his head with a grave smile.
"It's sixty miles in a bee-line from Lewes to Dover, and plenty of public-houses on the road. No Englishman could do it under eight hours on a hot day. If your romance-man gets there by midnight, he'll do well—and still be hours too late."
The Parson remained unmoved.
"It makes no odds," he called loftily. "If you want to know, Nelson's not in England."
"Is he not? where is he then?"
"Why, where he ought to be—hammering the Combined Squadron somewhere
St. Vincent way."
"How d'you know?"
"He's my cousin on my father's side. I heard from his mother only— only—"