“You must remember that on this occasion I am Mr. Eric Fortescue; that is the name I gave when I first made the acquaintance of this rustic. Don’t forget that.”
“I’ll bear it in mind; of course I do not know you by any other. I shall say that my friend Fortescue has directed me to wait on you, &c. You can imagine the rest; leave it all to me. He won’t accept the challenge, I suppose?”
“I should say not, but press the question. Put the matter home to him.”
“I will.”
The next day Mr. Bradley put himself in the train, and made the best of his way to Broxbridge. He had been told by his friend to call at the “Carved Lion” before proceeding to Stoke Ferry farmhouse, as possibly he might pick up some information at that respectable hostelry, but John Brickett was as silent as the grave, and studiously avoided referring to the circumstances attending Fortescue’s visit to Mr. Ashbrook.
It was a scandal he was in no way desirous of making more public than necessary, and hence his reticence.
Mr. Bradley had therefore no other course than to fight his battle single-handed. He presented himself at the farmhouse, and inquired for Mr. Richard Ashbrook. Kitty, who opened the door, said her master was in the fields, but if the gentleman would call in about an hour and a half’s time Mr. Ashbrook would be sure to be in by that time.
Mr. Bradley, upon this, contrived to kill time by a stroll round the neighbourhood. When he returned the farmer was at home, awaiting the stranger’s appearance, in the very same room in which he had chastised his ungrateful guest.
The girl announced Captain Bradley, who was at once shown into the parlour.
“Ah! your servant, sir,” cried the captain; “Mr. Ashbrook, I presume?”