“Do you happen to know if Mr Edgar Cunningham’s at home just now?”
“What do you want of him?” said Wyn.
“Well, I want you to give him this note if you could see him by himself any time. Here’s a shilling.”
“No, thank ye,” said Wyn. “I can give my master a note; but this wood ain’t open to the public, and you’d best turn to the left, and go out by the stile.”
“All right,” said the stranger. “I’ve missed my way.”
He turned to the left and walked off, and Wyn hurried back to his master, relieved to see Dobbles exactly where he had left him, and Mr Edgar lying, looking up at the trees overhead, evidently perfectly safe and undisturbed.
“Oh, please, sir,” said Wyn, “here are the flowers. But please, sir, we’d best go home. There’s characters about, and—why—wherever can it be?”
“Why, what’s the matter? You look quite scared. What’s missing?”
“Please, sir, I met a chap as I don’t think had any business there, and he gave me a note for you, and, sir, I can’t find it nowhere. I had it in my hand, and I must have dropped it.”
“I suppose it was one of the men from Ashwood or Raby,” said Edgar, mentioning two places in the neighbourhood. “Very careless of you, Wyn, to lose the note, and very silly to get a scare about it. Well,” after some time spent in searching, “we must get back now, and to-morrow, if it’s fine, I’ll come here again, and you can have a hunt for it.”