It did not seem as though the man inside the coach moved, but a gun spoke sharply, and a stabbing point of flame flashed in the darkness. The head and shoulders at the window vanished; there was the sound of a fall, of trampling hooves, of a startled shout, and the belated explosion of the blunderbuss.
The man in the coach drew his right hand out of his pocket at last. There was an elegant silver-mounted pistol in it, still smoking. The gentleman threw it on to the seat beside him, and crushed the charred and smouldering portion of his greatcoat between very long white fingers.
The door of the coach was pulled open, and the coachman jumped up on to the hastily let-down step. The lantern he held lit up the interior, and shone full into the face of the lounging man. It was a surprisingly young face, dark and extremely handsome, the curious vividness overlaid by an expression of restless boredom.
“Well?” said the gentleman coldly.
“Highwaymen, my lord. The new man being unused, so to say, to such doings, was late with the blunderbuss. There was three of them. They’ve made off — two of them, that is.”
“Well?” said the gentleman again.
The coachman seemed rather discomposed. “You’ve killed the other, my lord.”
“Certainly,” said the gentleman. “But I presume you have not opened the door to inform me of that.”
“Well, my lord — shan’t we — do I — his brains are lying in the road, my lord. Do we leave him — like that?”
“My good fellow, are you suggesting that I should carry a footpad’s corpse to my Lady Montacute’s drum?”