"B ... b ... but, your Honour..."
"Silence! I've said my last word. If that money is not in the bank by noon to-morrow, I'll denounce you to the Wirksworth magistrate as a fraudulent agent. Now hold your tongue about that. I've said my last word. The rest is your affair, not mine. I've more important matters to think on."
Master Mittachip, half dead with fear, dared not offer further argument or pleading. He knew his employer well enough to realise that his honour meant every word he said, and that he himself had nothing more to hope for in the matter of the money. The deficiency extracted from him by that rascal Beau Brocade would have to be made good somehow, and Master Mittachip bethought him ruefully of his own savings, made up of sundry little commissions extorted from his Honour's tenants.
No wonder the attorney felt none too kindly disposed towards the highwayman. He watched Sir Humphrey's face as a hungry dog does his master's, and noted with growing satisfaction that his Honour's anger was cooling down gradually, and giving place to harder and more cruel determination. As he watched, the look of terror died out of his bony, sallow face, and his pale, watery eyes began to twinkle with keen and vengeful malice.
CHAPTER XXI
MASTER MITTACHIP'S IDEA
He waited a little while, and gradually a smile of the deepest satisfaction spread over his bird-like countenance; he rubbed his meagre knees up and down with his thin hands, in obvious delight, and as soon as he saw his opportunity, he remarked slily,—
"An your Honour was on the Heath last night, you can help me testify to highway robbery before Squire West. There are plenty of soldiers in this village. His Honour'll have out a posse or two; the rascal can't escape hanging this time."
Sir Humphrey's florid, sensual face suddenly paled with a curious intensity of hatred.
"Aye! he shall hang sure enough," he muttered, with a loud oath.