“Well, it’s for the young lady—Miss Lestrange. I want you to give it to her; but, look here, Patsy, I don’t want any one to know about it——”
“Sure, I could slip it under her door,” said Patsy; “she slapes in the room next to her ladyship.”
“Yes, that will do. It’s only a note asking her to go to the meet this morning; it’s at ten, you say?”
“Tin o’clock at the big gates,” replied Patsy. “Shan Finucane is the huntsman, and he’ll be in the village collecting the dogs be nine. I’ll just slip down to him and tell him not to start wid the dogs till you’re on the spot; it’s plazed he’ll be to wait, for it’s not often the quality follows the dogs, only Mr Frinch, and the village rubbish, and maybe a farmer or two from Tullagh way. Is there anything else I can be gettin’ you, Mr Fanshawe?”
“No, that’s all,” replied Mr Fanshawe. “Just put the note under the door, as you say, and don’t let any one see you.”
There was nothing treasonable in the note; it ran:—
“Come to the meet of the beagles this morning. Some of the rest of them are sure to go, but we may find an opportunity to have a few words together. Put on a short skirt and a pair of thick boots. Excuse these rather mysterious instructions, but I have a reason for it. Dick.”
When he came downstairs the General was helping himself to chicken and tongue at the sideboard, Mr Boxall was spreading his serviette across his knees, and Violet Lestrange, in the absence of Lady Seagrave and Lady Molyneux, both late risers, was presiding at the teapot behind the huge copper urn, still to be found a relic of the past here and there in Irish country houses.
“Morning!” said Dicky.
He could not see Violet’s boots or skirt, for they were under the table, but she was in tweed, and had an open-airy look.