“Rose.
“Are all wicked men so clever as wicked Sir John Dering I wonder.”
“An’ now will ye fecht?” cried Sir Hector.
“No!” answered Sir John, flicking the letter to the floor. “Never with you, Hector!”
“Why, then—I’m done wi’ ye!” roared Sir Hector, and, turning his back, stamped from the room, closing the door after him with a reverberating bang.
Left alone, Sir John reached for his sword, sheathed it, and, picking up the letter, read it through a second time; and conning it over thus he frowned a little, and his chin seemed a trifle more prominent than usual. He was standing lost in thought when, hearing a clatter of hoofs in the yard, he glanced through the window to behold Sir Hector mount and ride away, his weatherbeaten hat cocked at a ferocious angle. Slowly and carefully Sir John folded up the letter and thrust it into a leathern wallet to keep company with a curl of black and glossy hair. Then he rang and ordered a horse in his turn.
“Pray, Mr. Levitt,” he inquired, “how many posting-inns are there in this town?”
“Only two, sir; there be the ‘Lion’ an’ there be the ‘Wheatsheaf,’ both i’ the High Street, your honour.”
So in due season, the saddle-horse being at the door, Sir John mounted, bade Mr. Levitt a cheery “good-bye” and rode along the High Street. Inquiring at the ‘Lion,’ he learned of an ostler the information he sought, to wit: “That a young ’ooman—or lady—had ordered their fastest chaise an’ druv’ away for Lon’on ’bout a hour ago!” Sir John thanked his informant, bestowed on him a crown and rode upon his way, smiling a little grimly.