CHAPTER XXI
OF GEORGE POTTER, HIS WHISTLE
“Regarding Mr. Sturton,” said Sir John, reining his horse to a walk when the old town had sunk from view behind them, “you perfectly understand, Robert, that I wish to give him sufficient rope to very thoroughly hang himself?”
“Pre-cisely, sir!”
“He hath no suspicions as yet of our identity?”
“None whatever, sir.”
“’Tis pity I declared my name at the inn yonder, Robert.”
“Why, I don’t see, sir, how Mr. Sturton is going to find out as you’re Sir John Dering—I mean, that Mr. Derwent is Sir John Dering, or that Sir John Dering is Mr. Derwent, or that your honour is ekally both and each other, the very same i-dentical person both together at the very same, pre-cise moment, sir.”
“It certainly sounds sufficiently involved, Bob. But I will confess the man puzzles me. I have even troubled to go through his accounts with my lawyers and they seem perfectly in order—and yet I know him for a rogue ... and, moreover, he knocked me into a ditch and called me a ‘lad’!”
“Lorramity!” exclaimed Robert, his imperturbability momentarily shaken.
“The term ‘lad’ rankles, Bob: the ditch I heartily forgive him, but—‘lad’!”