When he thought of Betsy Linley being in the power of that mad ruffian for another hour, he instinctively touched Sultan with the spur; and at the touch the good horse broke into a gallop, and it was in this gallop that he reached Seend Hill and climbed it as though it were level road. It needed a strong pull from Dick to bring him up at the Bear Inn.
Two coaches had just arrived from London, and the passengers were getting all the attendance the place could afford.
Dick found himself standing in the yard with Sultan’s saddle on the ground beside him, while the horse stood steaming in the light that came from the stable lantern. He showed a guinea to an ancient, hurrying groom, and the sight was too much for the man.
Had a chaise with four horses from Bath changed, and how long ago?
Not half an hour ago, if it was Captain Mathews’ shay his honour spoke of. Oh, ay, the captain had changed, and madam would not leave the shay—half an hour ago—barely—more like twenty minutes. A fresh saddle-horse? Ah, his honour must book that at the bar. Why, the London folk would be away in a quarter of an hour—mayhap ten minutes.
Dick rushed to the bar. Twenty people were between him and the landlord, who was responding with a fussy leisure to eighteen out of the twenty.
Dick rushed back to the stable-yard and found the groom still gazing at the guinea. Dick produced a second.
“You know Mr. Long, of Rood Ashton, my man?” he said. “This is Mr. Long’s horse. Look to him and put the saddle on the freshest horse in your stable. Take this guinea and don’t lose a moment. Refuse it, and as surely as you stand there like a fool, I’ll put a bullet through your head.”
“Your honour’s a gentleman,” cried the ostler, making a grasp for that hand which held the guinea as a bribe, and neglecting the one that held the pistol as a menace.
“You shall have the guinea when the horse is saddled,” said Dick. “Lead the way to the stable.”