The voice from within the house said with a slight stammer: “You c-can’t come up to C-Crome Hall, I tell you! It’s b-bad enough as it is. G-Good God, man, if anyone were to see me sneaking off to meet you here they’d p-precious soon smell a rat!”
A more robust voice answered: “Maybe I’ve been smelling rats myself, my young buck. Who was it foisted a partner on to me, eh? Were the pair of ye meaning to cheat Horace Trimble? Were ye, my bonny boy?”
“You fool, you let yourself be b-bubbled!” the stammerer said furiously. “Then you c-come here—enough to ruin everything! I tell you I d-daren’t say! And don’t come up to C-Crome Hall again, damn you! I’ll m-meet you tomorrow, in the spinney down the road. “Sblood, he can’t have g-gone far! Why don’t you go to B-Bristol if he didn’t b-break back to London? Instead of c-coming here to insult me!”
“I insult you! By the powers, that’s rich!” A full-throated laugh followed the words, and the sound of a chair being dashed back on a wooden floor.
“Damn your impudence! You’ve b-bungled everything, and now you c-come blustering to me! You were to arrange everything! I was to l-leave all to you! Finely you’ve arranged it! And n-now you expect m-me to set all to rights!”
“Softly, my buck! softly! You’re crowing mighty loud, but I did my part of the business all right and tight. It was the man you were so set on that bubbled me, and that makes me think, d’ye hear? It makes me think mighty hard. Maybe you’d better think too—and if you’ve a notion in your head that Horace Trimble’s a green ’un, get rid of it! See?”
“Hush, for G-God’s sake! You d-don’t know who may be listening! I’ll m-meet you to-morrow, at eleven, if I c-can shake off y-young Luttrell. We must think what’s to be done!”
A door opened and was hastily shut again. Sir Richard pulled Pen back into the shadows beyond the window, and, a moment later, a slight, cloaked figure came out of the inn, and strode swiftly away into the darkness.
The warning pressure on Pen’s arm held her silent, although she was by this time agog with excitement. Sir Richard waited until the dwindling sound of footsteps had died in the distance, and then strolled on with Pen’s hand still tucked in his arm, past the open window to the inn-door. Not until they stood in their own parlour again did Pen allow herself to speak, but as soon as the door was shut behind them, she exclaimed: “What did it mean? He spoke of “Young Luttrell”—did you hear him? It must be the man who is staying with him! But who was the other man, and what were they talking about?”
Sir Richard did not appear to be attending very closely. He was standing by the table, a frown between his eyes, and his mouth rather grim. Suddenly his gaze shifted to Pen’s face, but what he said seemed to her incomprehensible. “Of course!” he muttered softly. “So that was it!”