“Oh, it’s you, Moggridge,” said Barclay gruffly. “You don’t want money, I’m sure.”
“Thank ye, no, Mr Barclay, sir,” said the visitor, a closely shaven, sharp-faced man, with bow legs. “Things is moving, sir. I’m doing tidy;” and he went on chewing a piece of clover hay, which he had between his lips.
“What do you want then?”
“Well, you know what you said, sir, after the Hon. Tom Badgley went off that night, and dodged the sheriff’s officers; and you know what I promised you.”
“Who’s going now?”
“Major Rockley, sir.”
“The deuce! Alone?”
“No, sir. I think there’s a lady in the case.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know, sir. Take up at Mrs Pontardent’s party; half arter ten.”