"But—but who ordered you?"
The post-boy did not observe, or disregarded, his bewilderment.
"A Briton's a Briton, sir, I hope? I ask no questions, knowing my place.…But if so be as you were to tell me there's been a great victory—" He paused on this.
"Well, my man, you're right so far, and no harm in telling you."
"Aye," chirruped the post-boy. "When the maid called me up with the order, and said as how he and no other had called with it—"
"He?"
The fellow nodded.
"She knew him at once, from his portraits. Who wouldn't? With his right sleeve pinned across so.…And, said I, 'Then there's been a real victory. Never would you see him back, unless. And I was right, sir!' he concluded triumphantly.
"Let me see that piece of paper."
"You'll let me have it back, sir?—for a memento," the post-boy pleaded. Lieutenant Lapenotiere took it from him—a plain half-sheet of note-paper roughly folded. On it was scribbled in pencil, back-hand wise, "Lt. Lapenotiere. Admiralty, Whitehall. At 6.30 a.m., not later. For Merton, Surrey."