“Will you, my fine faellow? then take care of yourself.”
“Stay, and if you dare utter a word against me,” said Philip, with that frown to which his swarthy complexion and flashing eyes gave an expression of fierce power beyond his years, “you will find that, as I am the last to care for a threat, so I am the first to resent an injury!”
Thus saying, he drove on. Captain Smith affected a cough, and put his brown mare into a canter. The two men followed Philip as he drove into the yard.
“What do you know against the person he spoke to?” said one of them.
“Merely that he is one of the cunningest swells on this side the Bay,” returned the other. “It looks bad for your young friend.”
The first speaker shook his head and made no reply.
On gaining the yard, Philip found that Mr. Stubmore had gone out, and was not expected home till the next day. He had some relations who were farmers, whom he often visited; to them he was probably gone.
Philip, therefore, deferring his intended caution against the gay captain till the morrow, and musing how the caution might be most discreetly given, walked homeward. He had just entered the lane that led to his lodgings, when he saw the two men I have spoken of on the other side of the street. The taller and better-dressed of the two left his comrade; and crossing over to Philip, bowed, and thus accosted him,—
“Fine evening, Mr. Philip Morton. I am rejoiced to see you at last. You remember me—Mr. Blackwell, Lincoln’s Inn.”
“What is your business?” said Philip, halting, and speaking short and fiercely.