“He’s the very devil himself, I do believe,” said Stackhouse. “Why, what a pony he must have to be sure! But it’s no use hesitating—which road had we better take?”
“I leave that to you, my friend. I should say, the one which leads direct to London; he would be sure to go that way.”
“All right—then on we go.”
They did go on, as fast as their two hacks would take them. But mile after mile was covered, yet not the faintest trace could they find of Charles Peace.
Clayton was rather nettled.
“And suppose after all he is not the man. A pretty pair of fools we’ve been making of ourselves,” said he.
“We’ve had a pleasant evening’s ride.”
“Pleasant you call it—I can’t see it in that light myself.”
“It won’t do either of us any harm.”
“Well, we shan’t find him now wherever he may be.”