"My lord..."
"Some stupid dolt mayhap, who has lost his way ... or ... perchance betrayed me..."
"My lord," pleaded the smith, "have I not sworn that your letter went by hands as faithful, as trusty as my own?"
"But I'll not rest an you do not tell me who took it. I wish to know," he added with that sudden look of command which all the Strettons have worn for many generations past.
The old habitual deference of the retainer for his lord was strong in the heart of John. He yielded.
"Nay, my lord, an you'll not be satisfied," he said with a sigh, "I'll tell you, though Heaven knows that his safety is as dear to me as yours—both dearer than my own."
"Well, who was it?" asked the young man, eagerly.
"I entrusted your letter for Lady Patience to Beau Brocade, the highwayman—"
In a moment Philip was on his feet: danger, amazement, horror, robbed him of speech for a few seconds, but the next he had gripped the smith's arm and like a furious, thoughtless, unreasoning child, he gasped,—
"Beau Brocade!! ... the highwayman!!! ... My life, my honour to a highwayman!!! Are you mad or drunk, John Stich?"