"Never a soul, sir. The truth is, I've lost my way, and shan't be sorry to get out o' this pesty rain."
"'Tis heavier now. Well, good-night. You'll find a warm room in the inn at the foot of the hill, if the innkeeper hasn't raked out the fire and gone to bed. Good-night."
He retreated with his guttering candle into the house and shut the door, the coachman driving back to the high road. Dick was mystified. Why had the man denied having a passenger? Why had he extinguished his light and turned out of the road on hearing horsemen? The driver said nothing, except to grumble under his breath at the weather, and Dick refrained from questioning him, thinking that some light might be thrown on the mystery when they reached the inn.
The carriage had just wheeled into the road when Dick felt a touch on his right arm. He looked round: the passenger was leaning forward out of the window.
"How is ze name of zat man—him zat hold ze light?" asked the stranger eagerly.
Dick hesitated; then, seeing no reason for not answering, said: "That is Mr. John Trevanion."
"Tre—vat say you, if you please?"
"Trevanion."
"Trevanion!" repeated the questioner, giving a strange intonation to the name. "Ah! Shank you."
He withdrew his head into the carriage. Dick heard the driver mutter: