"Do Sola lots er good ter go," he persisted, bending to alter one of the straps of the saddle; "he not well, sho. Might ride 'em long todes Maddum Giron's, cross de Lebbuls en troo de wood by de eastymose nigh-cut."
The Doctor was listening now with attention. Pablo went on working at the strap. "De eastymose nigh-cut," he repeated, as if talking to himself.
"Perhaps you are right," said the Doctor, after a moment, his eyes sharply scanning the withered black face which was bending over the strap. "And I suppose if I go at all, I might as well go at once, eh? So as not to have him out in the dew?"
"Yes, sah," answered Pablo. "De soonah de bettah, sah."
"Very well," said the Doctor.
Pablo led out the horse, and the Doctor mounted. "Mebbe, sah, if you's gwine as fur as Maddum Giron's, you'd be so good as ter kyar' dish yer note, as I wuz gwine fer ter kyar it myse'f, on'y my rheumatiz is so bad," said the old man. He held up an envelope, which he had carefully wrapped in brown paper, so that it should not become soiled in his pocket.
The Doctor's face showed no expression of any kind; and Pablo's own countenance remained stolidly dull. "I hope you'll skuse me, sah, fer askin'," he said, respectfully; "it's my bad rheumatiz, sah."
"Yes, Pablo, I know; I can as well carry the note as not," said the Doctor, carelessly.
Pablo made a jerk with his head and hand, which was his usual salutation, and the Doctor rode off.
When at a distance from the house, and among the trees where no one could see him, he took out the package and opened it. It contained a sealed envelope with an address; holding it out at a distance from his eyes in order to be able to read it without his glasses, he found that the name was Lucian Spenser; and the handwriting was Garda's. The Doctor sat for a moment staring at it; then he put the note back in his pocket and rode on; even there, where there was no one to see him but the birds, his face betrayed nothing.