An hour later three gentlemen might have been observed riding soberly out to Knightsbridge. Captain Heron, bestriding a raking chestnut from the Viscount’s stables, had changed his scarlet regimentals and his powdered wig for a plain suit of buff, and a brown tie-wig. He had found time, before joining the Viscount at his lodging, to call in Grosvenor Square again, where he had found Horatia in a fever of anxiety. When she learned of the new development in the affair, she first expressed herself as extremely dissatisfied that no one had killed the wretched Mr Drelincourt, and it was some few minutes before Captain Heron could induce her to speak of anything but that gentleman’s manifold iniquities. When her indignation had abated somewhat he laid the Viscount’s plan before her. This met with her instant approval. It was the cleverest notion she had ever heard of, and of course it could not fail.
Captain Heron warned her to keep her own counsel, and went off to Pall Mall. He had not much expectation of finding Mr Hawkins either at the Half-Way House or anywhere else, but it was obviously no use saying so to the optimistic Viscount. By this time his brother-in-law was in fine fettle, so that whether Mr Hawkins kept his appointment or not, it seemed probable that the plan would be carried out.
About a quarter of a mile before the Half-Way House was reached, a solitary rider, walking his horse, came into view. As they drew closer he looked over his shoulder, and Captain Heron was forced to admit that he had misjudged their new acquaintance.
Mr Hawkins greeted him jovially. “Dang me if you wasn’t a-speaking the truth!” he exclaimed. His eyes ran over the Viscount’s mare approvingly. “That’s a nice bit of horse-flesh, that is,” he nodded. “But tricksy—tricksy, I’ll lay my life. You come along o’ me to the boozing ken I telled you of.”
“Got those coats?” asked the Viscount.
“Ay, all’s bowman, your honour.”
The ale-house which Mr Hawkins had made his head-quarters lay some little distance off the main road. It was an unsavoury haunt, and from the look of the company in the tap-room seemed to be frequented largely by ruffians of Mr Hawkins’s calling. As a preliminary to the adventure the Viscount called for four bumpers of brandy, for which he paid with a guinea tossed on to the counter.
“Don’t throw guineas about, you young fool!” said Captain Heron in a low voice. “You’ll have your pocket picked if you’re not more careful.”
“Ay, the Capting’s in the right of it,” said Mr Hawkins, overhearing. “I’m a bridle cull, I am—never went on the dub-lay yet, no, and never will, but there’s a couple of files got their winkers on you. We gets all sorts here—locks, files, common prigs, and foot-scamperers. Now, my bullies, drain your clanks! I got your toges up the dancers.”
Sir Roland plucked at the Captain’s sleeve. “You know, Heron,” he whispered confidentially, “this brandy—not at all the thing’. Hope it don’t get into poor Pel’s head—very wild in his cups—oh, very wild! Must keep him away from any dancers.”