“I doubt if you’ll find her: the Captain caught a sight of me this morning. Why, he lodges at our hotel. He’s off by this time!”
“And why the devil did you let him go?”
“‘Cause I had no writ agin him!” said the Bow Street officer; and he walked straight out of the counting-office, satisfied that he had “done the job.”
To snatch his hat—to run to the hotel—to find that Captain Smith had indeed gone off in his phaeton, bag and baggage, the same as he came, except that he had now two horses to the phaeton instead of one—having left with the landlord the amount of his bill in another cheque upon Coutts—was the work of five minutes with Mr. Stubmore. He returned home, panting and purple with indignation and wounded feeling.
“To think that chap, whom I took into my yard like a son, should have connived at this! ‘Tain’t the money—‘tis the willany that ‘flicts me!” muttered Mr. Stubmore, as he re-entered the mews.
Here he came plump upon Philip, who said—
“Sir, I wished to see you, to say that you had better take care of Captain Smith.”
“Oh, you did, did you, now he’s gone? ‘sconded off to America, I dare say, by this time. Now look ye, young man; your friends are after you, I won’t say anything agin you; but you go back to them—I wash my hands of you. Quite too much for me. There’s your week, and never let me catch you in my yard agin, that’s all!”
Philip dropped the money which Stubmore had put into his hand. “My friends!—friends have been with you, have they? I thought so—I thank them. And so you part with me? Well, you have been very kind, very kind; let us part kindly;” and he held out his hand.
Mr. Stubmore was softened—he touched the hand held out to him, and looked doubtful a moment; but Captain de Burgh Smith’s cheque for eighty guineas suddenly rose before his eyes. He turned on his heel abruptly, and said, over his shoulder: