“This poor creature is mad, friends,” said Gray. “She—she thinks she has seen something.”
“The Lord preserve us!” cried the landlord. “An’ it please you, sir, I see Sir Frederick crossing the river.”
“Who?” cried Grey.
“Your honour’s good friend, Sir Frederick Hartleton—ah, I’ll warrant he has some sport in view, for he has Elias and Stephy, his two runners, with him.”
Gray darted to the door.
“Your honour—honour,” cried the landlord, “an’ it please you, what did the poor crazy creature fancy she saw?”
“The devil!” cried Gray.
In a moment he was outside the house. He cast one glance towards the river. In the middle of the stream was a two-oared cutter, pulled rapidly by two rowers, while a figure that he at once recognised as the magistrate sat steering.
With a stifled cry, Jacob Gray set his teeth, and darted off towards his solitary home, like a hunted hare.