The hackney-coach stopped, according to his direction, at an inn in the city. Here Crauford asked if a note had been left for Dr. Stapylton. One (written by himself) was given to him.
"Merciful Heaven!" cried the false doctor, as he read it, "my daughter is on a bed of death!"
The landlord's look wore anxiety; the doctor seemed for a moment paralyzed by silent woe. He recovered, shook his head piteously, and ordered a post-chaise and four on to Canterbury without delay.
"It is an ill wind that blows nobody good!" thought the landlord, as he issued the order into the yard.
The chaise was soon out; the doctor entered; off went the post-boys; and Richard Crauford, feeling his diamond, turned his thoughts to safety and to France.
A little, unknown man, who had been sitting at the bar for the last two hours sipping brandy and water, and who from his extreme taciturnity and quiet had been scarcely observed, now rose. "Landlord," said he, "do you know who that gentleman is?"
"Why," quoth Boniface, "the letter to him was directed, 'For the Rev.
Dr. Stapylton; will be called for.'"
"Ah," said the little man, yawning, "I shall have a long night's work of it. Have you another chaise and four in the yard?"
"To be sure, sir, to be sure!" cried the landlord in astonishment.
"Out with it, then! Another glass of brandy and water,—a little stronger, no sugar!"