"Be careful not to eat it all up at once," he said. "It's got to last you till to-morrow."
"What's this! What's this!" cried Mr. Lambert. "You promised to release me when you got the letter!"
"When I get the promissory note, or when my father's solicitor gets it. I've told him to wire."
The money-lender snarled like a dog; his brilliant idea had proved of no good. He stormed and stormed; Tinker was cheerful, but indifferent. He thrust a rug he had brought with him through the window, summoned his phantom band, and rode away.
Mr. Lambert spent a gloomy, but, thanks to the soothing of his stomach, a not uncomfortable day. He was very sad that he had lost the chance of swindling Sir Tancred Beauleigh out of 1450 pounds; and his sadness and an occasional twinge of rheumatism filled him with thoughts of revenge. Slowly he formed a plan of disabling Tinker by an unexpected kick when he opened the door, thrashing him within an inch of his life, riding off on his pony, and leaving him helpless, to starve or not, according as he might be found. This plan was a real comfort to him. He passed an unhaunted night; and next morning Tinker brought him more food. For some hours he played at robber baron, and now and again held conversations about the money-lender with his band. None of them contained compliments. Mr. Lambert watched him with a sulky malignity, and matured his plan.
The next morning he awoke late, but very cheerful at the prospect of freedom and revenge. He came to the window rubbing his hands joyfully, and saw a little parcel hanging from the bars. He opened it, and found the key of the door, a little compass, and a letter. Swearing at his vanished chance of revenge, he opened it; it ran:
Fly at once. Steer N. E. for Tulyspathe. Hamish believes you are uncanny, and has molded a silver bullet out of a half crown to lay your resless spirrit with. His rifel is oldfashuned, but he will not miss and waist the half crown he is so thriffty.
A SEKRET WORNER.
Mr. Lambert steered N.E. at once; he went not like the wind, but as much like the wind as his soft, short legs would carry him. He scanned every bush and gully with fearful eyes; he gave every thicket a wide berth, and every time he saw Hamish, and he saw him behind a thousand bushes and boulders, he shouted: "I'm Mr. Lambert from London, I'm not a spirit!"
It was, indeed, a wasted and dirty money-lender who reached Tullispaith late in the day. He had but one thought in his mind, to fly immediately after dinner from this expansive and terrifying country. He wired to his guests not to come; he discharged his servants; and as he crossed the border next day, he bade farewell to the stern and wild Caledonia in a most impressive malediction.