But now, as they faced each other, Barnabas observed something else; John Peterby's lips were compressed, and in his eye was anxiety, the which had, somehow, got into his voice when he spoke, though his tone was low and modulated: "Sir, if you are for London to-night, we had better start at once, the coach leaves Tenterden within the hour."
"But," says Barnabas, setting his head aslant, and rubbing his chin with the argumentative air that was so very like his father, "I have ordered supper here, Peterby."
"Which—under the circumstances—I have ventured to countermand, sir."
"Oh?" said Barnabas, "pray, what circumstances?"
"Sir, as I told you, the mail—"
"John Peterby, speak out—what is troubling you?"
But now, even while Peterby stood hesitating, from the open casement of the inn, near at hand, came the sound of a laugh: a soft, gentle, sibilant laugh which Barnabas immediately recognized.
"Ah!" said he, clenching his fist. "I think I understand." As he turned towards the inn, Peterby interposed.
"Sir," he whispered, "sir, if ever a man meant mischief—he does. He came back an hour ago, and they have been waiting for you ever since."
"They?"