“Gone,” he said, with a knowing twinkle in his eye, “very likely to Normandy; it’s a runaway match, isn’t it?”
“What are you talking about?” replied the coachman, whose temper was rising. “Don’t poke fun at me, or you’ll find yourself in the wrong box.”
“Well, if that isn’t an elopement or a case of kidnapping, I’m much deceived. The fact is, that blooming Panther was thought to be a bit suspicious like, and if I were you, I’d just look up the harbour master,” said Blucher Gray.
“Why, man,” cried the coachman, “you’re all at sea; my ladies came expressly to see some gentleman coming from Cherbourg or Dieppe.”
“Do you mean the parties who went up in a balloon? Lor’ bless you, I know ’em well, and helped to start them from Bishopstone when a detective joined ’em. But don’t you know, coachman,” said Blucher Gray, for it was none other than he, “that there’s no boat due yet?”
“My good man,” replied the coachman, “you will drive me mad if you say much more.”
“Well, it’s my opinion that you have been hoaxed, and I believe I’ve been served out myself. You see that man coming in a fly, he’s Dick Trimmons. I’ll speak to him; we shall hear something more perhaps. Hi! Trimmons,” cried Blucher Gray; “hold on a minute with your trap, and tell us what you know about that queer craft the Panther, and where she has gone to.”
“Didn’t know she was gone,” said Dick Trimmons. “I brought over this morning your lodger, that black devil of a man with his big black spectacles, from Seaford.”
“And where is he now, Dick, eh? I suppose you know the coachman here? He has lost his ladies; they come from Wedwell Park.”
“Lost his ladies! You don’t mean that?”