"Who is he?" I demanded.
"Ex-cuse me, sir—no! Seein' as 'ow this cove, though a murderer in intent, ain't a murderer in fact, yet—you must ex-cuse me if I with'old 'is name. And here's Eltham Village an' yonder's the 'Man o' Kent' a good 'ouse v'ere I'm known, so if you'll 'old the 'oss, sir, I'll get down and ax a question or so."
And I, sitting outside this sleepy hostelry in this quiet village street, thought no more of Mr. Shrig's gruesome errand, but rather of shady copse, of murmurous brooks and of one whose vivid presence had been an evergrowing joy and inspiration, waking me to nobler manhood, filling me with aspirations to heroic achievement; and to-day here sat I, lost in futile dreams—scorning myself for a miserable failure while the soul within me wept for that Diana of the vanished past—
"Right as ninepence, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, beaming cheerily as he clambered up beside me. "My birds 'as flew this vay, sure enough!"
Thus as we drove I sat alternately lost in these distressful imaginings or hearkening to my companion's animadversions upon rogues, criminals, and crime in general until, as the afternoon waned, we descended the steep hill into Wrotham village and pulled up at the "Bull" Inn, into whose hospitable portal Mr. Shrig vanished, to pursue those enquiries he had repeated at every posthouse along the road.
Presently as I sat, reins in hand, an ostler appeared who, grasping the horse's bridle and heeding me no whit, led us into the stable yard. And here I found Mr. Shrig leaning upon his knotted stick and lost in contemplation of a dusty chaise beneath which lay a perspiring and profane postboy busied with divers tools upon the front axle.
Now as I glanced at the vehicle, something about it struck me as familiar and then, despite the dust, I saw that it had red wheels and a black body picked out in yellow.
"Ah, Mr. Shrig," said I, "if this is the chaise you are so interested about, I think I can tell you who rode in it."
"And who would you name, sir?"
"Captain Danby," I answered.