“Never mind—it was of no consequence whatever; the only misfortune was, we could find no coach, and were forced to put up with a car, and got wet for our pains; but the supper, Bill—the supper.”
“Is smoking hot on the table,” was the reply; and as he opened the door into the parlour, the fact declared itself to their senses.
The strangers were soon seated at the meal, and like men who could relish its enjoyment not the less for the merit of what they had quitted without doors. It is not necessary to consume much time in presenting them to our readers; they are both already known to him. One was Mr. Hemsworth; the other no less a person than Lanty Lawler, the horse-dealer. One only remark is necessary. Familiar as these characters already are, they here appeared in aspect somewhat different from what they have hitherto exhibited. Hemsworth, no longer the associate of fashionable company, had exchanged his silken deferential manner for an air of easy confidence that seemed to fit him even better; Lanty, on the other hand, had lost all his habitual self-possession, looked abashed and sheepish, and seemed for all the world, as though he were in the hands of one, who could dispose of his destiny as he willed it. All the got up readiness of his wit, all his acquired frankness were now gone, and in their place a timid hesitating manner that bespoke the most abject fear and terror; it was evident, too, that he struggled hard to conceal these signs of trepidation. He ate voraciously of all before him, and endeavoured by the pre-occupation of the table to cover his real sentiments at the moment; he drank, too, freely, filling a large goblet to the brim with sherry several times during the meal; nor was this unnoticed by Hemsworth, who at last interposed in a calm, but commanding tone, as he laid his hand on the decanter—
“A pipe of it, if you please, Lanty; you may have a whole bank of the Guadalquiver for your own drinking at another time; but now, if you please, let us have calm heads and cool judgments. It is some time since we met, and it may be longer ere we have another opportunity like the present.”
“Very true, sir,” said Lanty, submissively, as he pushed his untasted glass before him. “It was the wetting I was afeard of; my clothes were soaked through.”
Hemsworth paid no attention to the excuse, but sat for some minutes deeply sunk in his reflections; then lifting his head suddenly, he said—
“And so these papers have never been found?”
“Never, sir. I did my best to get them. I spent days at the place, and had others looking besides. I said I'd give five guineas—and you know what a reward that is down there—to the man who would bring them to me; but from that hour to this, I never set eyes on them.”
“While he was speaking these words, Hemsworth's eyes never turned from him. They were fixed on him, not with any expression of severity or harshness, neither did the glance indicate suspicion. It was a steady, passionless stare, rather like one seeking an explanation, than prejudging a motive.
“You were quite certain that they were the papers we wanted?”