“Your majesty,” he said, “will humbly excuse me, but there is a fire at Battersea, and they do say there’s been a murder.”
“At—at—where?” cried Britton.
“At Battersea. From the back window of the room up stairs, adjoining your gracious majesty’s, you may see the sky as red as—as—anything.”
“Oh—at Battersea—to-night?”
“Yes—even now. It was one of Sir Francis Hartleton’s men who said there had been a murder.”
“Indeed!—Oh, indeed,” said Britton, breathing more freely. “I—I—What’s it to me? What have I to do with it? Here’s a toast, gentlemen, all. A toast, I say.”
People are always ready to drink toasts at another’s expense, and it is really very extraordinary what very out-of-the-way and singular sentiments many well-meaning and harmless people will solemnly pledge themselves when they come before them in the shape of toasts; and every glass and tankard was filled to do honour to the proposition of Britton, when the landlord, whose back was against the door, was nearly pushed down by the sudden entrance of a man, who, after one glance round the room, cried,—
“Now’s your time.”
At the words, there arose two men from among the guests, and nodded to him who had just arrived. What the three were about to do seemed involved in mystery, and likely to form an endless theme for conjecture, for before they could make any movement indicative of their intentions, another man appeared at the door, and nearly breathless from the haste he had made, he cried in a loud voice,—
“No!”