“I hope you may,” responded Gregg. “But take my advice, and go armed! The man you are after is indeed desperate, and I fancy he will not be without his pistols.”
The Runners exchanged glances. “I did hear tell of him being handy with his pops,” remarked Mr Stubbs in a casual voice.
“They say he never misses,” said Gregg, lowering his eyes demurely. “If I were in your shoes, I should think it as well to shoot him before he could shoot me.”
“Yes, I dare say,” said Mr Stubbs bitterly, “but we ain’t allowed to go a-shooting of coves.”
“But if you told—both of you—how he shot first, and would have escaped, it would surely be overlooked?” suggested Gregg gently.
It was left to Mr Peabody to sum up the situation, but this he did not do until the valet had gone. Then he said to his troubled companion: “You know what this looks like to me, Jerry? It looks to me like as if there’s someone unaccountable anxious to have this Ludovic Lavenham put away quick—ah, and quiet, too!”
Mr Stubbs shook his head gloomily, and after a long silence, said: “We got to do our dooty, William.”
Their duty took them up the road to the Red Lion very early next morning. Their plan of surprising the household was frustrated by Nye, who had taken the precaution of setting Clem on the watch. By the time the Runners had reached the inn Ludovic had been roused, and hauled, protesting, to the cellar, and his room swept bare of all trace of him. The Runners were not gratified by the least sign of surprise in Nye, who greeted them with no more than the natural annoyance of a landlord knocked up at an unseasonable hour. In the taproom Clem was prosaically engaged in scrubbing the floor; he turned a blank, inquiring face towards the Runners, and with the stolid air of one who has work to do, returned to his task.
“Well, and what might you be wanting at this hour of the morning?” asked Nye testily.
“What we want is a word with that abigail we saw yesterday,” said Mr Stubbs.