"When you will," said he.
"Have you no orders then from Mistress Gwyn?"
"She left none with me, sir."
"Left none?" I cried, amazed.
A smile came on his lips and his eyes twinkled.
"Now I thought it!" said he with a chuckle. "You didn't know her purpose? She has hired a post-chaise and set out two hours ago, telling me that you and the other lady would travel as well without her, and that, for her part, she was weary of both of you. But she left a message for you. See, it lies there on the table."
A little packet was on the table; I took it up. The innkeeper's eyes were fixed on me in obvious curiosity and amusement. I was not minded to afford him more entertainment than I need, and bade him begone before I opened the packet. He withdrew reluctantly. Then I unfastened Nell's parcel. It contained ten guineas wrapped in white paper, and on the inside of the paper was written in a most laborious awkward scrawl (I fear the execution of it gave poor Nell much pains), "In pay for your dagger. E.G." It was all of her hand I had ever seen; the brief message seemed to speak a sadness in her. Perhaps I deluded myself; her skill with the pen would not serve her far. She had gone, that was the sum of it, and I was grieved that she had gone in this fashion.
With the piece of paper still in my hands, the guineas also still standing in a little pile on the table, I turned to find Barbara Quinton in the doorway of the room. Her air was timid, as though she were not sure of welcome, and something of the night's embarrassment still hung about her. She looked round as though in search for somebody.
"I am alone here," said I, answering her glance.
"But she? Mistress——?"