Me and a friend have borrowed your boat, for we are going a long journey; but as we may keep it all together, I send to you fourteen shillings and a fourpny piece, which I have saved up, and if that isn’t quite quite enough I shall send you some more. I hope you won’t mind our taking your boat, but Bob Dimsted says we must have it, or we can’t get on.
Yours af—very truly,
Obed Coleby, or To Sir Jhames Danby, Dexter Grayson.
Dexter’s spelling was a little shaky here and there, but the letter was pretty intelligible; and, as soon as it was done, he took out his money and made a packet of it, and doubled it up, a task he had nearly finished, when he became aware that the door was partly opened, and as he guiltily thrust the packet into his pocket the door opened widely, and Maria entered, with a sharp, short cough.
“Did I leave my duster here, Master Dexter!” she said, looking round sharply.
Before Dexter could reply, she continued—
“No, I must have left it upstairs.”
She whisked out and closed the door with a bang, the very opposite of the way in which she had opened it, and said to herself triumphantly—
“There, I knew he was doing of something wrong, and if I don’t find him out, my name ain’t Maria.”
Dexter hurriedly finished his packet, laying the money in it again after further consideration—in and out amongst the paper, so that the money should not chink, and then placing it in the enclosure with the letter, he tied it up with a piece of the red tape the doctor kept in a little drawer, sealed it, and directed it in his plainest hand to Sir James Danby.