The man shook him off with an oath, and was starting again on his search, when about fifty yards away there was the tramp of horses, the rattle and bump of wheels; and then, as by one consent, the three men ran towards the spot, they caught a faint glimpse of a yellow chaise turning into the main road; then there was the cracking of the postboys’ whips, and away it went over the hard road at a canter.
“Too late!” groaned the man, as he ran on, closely followed by Linnell and Mellersh.
“Too late!” groaned Linnell; but he ran on, passing the man, who raced after him, though, and for about a quarter of a mile they kept almost together, till, panting with breathlessness and despair, and feeling the utter hopelessness of overtaking the chaise on foot, Linnell turned fiercely on the runner and grasped him by the throat.
“You scoundrel!” he panted. “You knew of this. Who’s in that chaise?”
“Curse you! don’t stop me. Can’t you see I’m too late?” cried the man savagely.
“Linnell! Are you mad?” cried Mellersh, coming up.
“Linnell!—are you Linnell?—Richard Linnell?” panted the man, ceasing his struggles.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Don’t waste time, man,” groaned the other. “We must stop them at any cost. Did you see them go? Who is it Major Rockley has got there?”
“A lady we know,” said Mellersh quickly. “Who are you?”