“Gideon!” said Matthew, very red in the face, “if you do not have this impudent dog clapped up, I’ll—I’ll—”
“Tell Gilly what you’ll do when you see him at Aylesbury!” recommended his cousin.
But when they readied Aylesbury they failed to discover the Duke at either of the chief hostelries in that town. The landlord of the White Hart informed them that Mr. Rufford, and his young cousins, had left for Reading on the stagecoach as soon as they had swallowed their breakfasts that morning. He added that they were not the first persons to enquire after Mr. Rufford, and expressed the hope that he had not been housing a fugitive from justice.
“But what in the devil’s name is he doing, jauntering about the country in stage-coaches?” almost wailed Matthew, once out of the landlord’s hearing.
“Fleeing from Mr. Mamble, I should think,” replied Gideon flippantly.
“Well, it’s no jesting matter if he did kidnap that boy!” Matthew pointed out. “What do you mean to do now?”
“My blood is up, and I shall follow him. Besides, he may yet need me to protect him from this infuriated parent. You will go back to Oxford.”
“I suppose I must,” sighed Matthew. “But what shall you do with that fellow, Liversedge?”
“Oh, take him along with me! Wragby can look after him.”
“Master Gideon,” said Nettlebed, with a set look on his face, “if you mean to continue searching for his Grace, I am coining with you!”