“Quick, then, McCray!” exclaimed Sir Murray; “and keep that tongue of yours silent afterwards!”
“Ye may trust me, Sir Mooray,” said McCray, gruffly; and setting off at a smart canter, they were soon nearing the village street.
The storm had by this time passed over, and the stars were blinking out here and there; but from every tree and leaf the great drops fell pattering down, while ditch and channel ran furiously with their unwonted muddy currents.
“Go into that public-house, and ask what conveyances have gone out from there to-day—this afternoon?” said Sir Murray.
McCray returned in five minutes, followed by the inquisitive Chunt.
“Good evening, Sir Murray,” he said, hat in hand, and not seeing the frown upon the baronet’s countenance. “I’ve been telling your man, Sir Murray, nothing’s gone but the dog-cart as Cap’en Norton came and had out. Carried his bag over, sir, and wouldn’t wait for a man to bring the car back; said he’d drive himself, and leave it at ‘The Chequers,’ at Marshton, Sir Murray.”
The mud from the horse’s hoofs was splashed in Chunt’s face as he finished, for Sir Murray stuck in the spurs so, that the poor brute plunged furiously; and it was all that McCray—not the best of horsemen—could do to overtake him, as he galloped along the main road to Marshton, where they arrived about ten, with their horses blown, and covered with foam, Sir Murray, who had not spoken, leading the way into the inn-yard.
“Chunt’s dog-car, sir? Brought in here about five, sir, by a boy as a gent gave sixpence to bring it in, sir. Tall gent, with a mark across his face, sir,” the boy said.
So spake “The Chequers” hostler, in reply to questions put by Sir Murray Gernon, who had drawn his hat down over his eyes, and turned up the collar of his coat, as though to prevent his being recognised.
“What boy, sir? Can’t say, sir. Looked like lad returning from harvest work. Quite a stranger to these parts, sir.”