Bon. I don't know what to make of him; he talks of keeping his horses ready saddled, and of going, perhaps, at a minute's warning; or of staying, perhaps, till the best part of this be spent.
Cher. Ay! ten to one, father, he's a highwayman.
Bon. A highwayman! upon my life, girl, you have hit it, and this box is some new purchased booty.—Now, could we find him out, the money were ours.
Cher. He don't belong to our gang.
Bon. What horses have they?
Cher. The master rides upon a black.
Bon. A black! ten to one the man upon the black mare: and since he don't belong to our fraternity, we may betray him with a safe conscience: I don't think it lawful to harbour any rogues but my own. Lookye, child, as the saying is, we must go cunningly to work; proofs we must have; the gentleman's servant loves drink; I'll ply him that way, and ten to one he loves a wench; you must work him t'other way.
Cher. Father, would you have me give my secret for his?
Bon. Consider, child, there's two hundred pound, to boot. [Ringing without.] Coming, coming—child, mind your business.
[Exit Boniface.