“May I see the letter?”
The Colonel handed it, and tinkled the bell again, more impatiently. At length steps were heard in the hall, and a servant open’d the door.
“Where is Giles?” ask’d the Colonel. “Why are you taking his place?”
“Giles can’t be found, your honor.”
“Hey?”
“He’s a queer oldster, your honor, an’ maybe gone to bed wi’ his aches and pains.”
(I knew pretty well that Giles had done no such thing: but be sure I kept the knowledge safe behind my screen.)
“Then go seek him, and say—No, stop: I can’t wait. Order the coach around at the barbican in twenty minutes from now—twenty minutes, mind, without fail. And say—’twill save time—the fellow’s to drive me to Mistress Finch’s house in St. Thomas’ Street—sharp!”
As the man departed on his errand, the Earl laid down His Majesty’s letter.
“Hang the fellow,” he said, “if they want it: the blame, if any, will be theirs. But, in the name of Heaven, Colonel, don’t fail in lending me this thousand men! ’Twill finish the war out of hand.”