"Why no, sir. And it were only 'is whip-arm. 'Urts a bit o' course, but 'e managed to write you a letter, 'e did; an' 'ere it is."
So Barnabas took the letter, and holding it in the moonlight where
Cleone could see it, they, together, made out these words:
MY DEAR BEV,—There is durty work afoot. Some Raskells have tried to lame 'Moonraker,' but thanks to my Imp and your man Martin, quite unsuccessfully. How-beit your man Martin—regular game for all his years—has a broken nob and one ogle closed up, and I a ball through my arm, but nothing to matter. But I am greatly pirtirbed for the safety of 'Moonraker' and mean to get him into safer quarters and advise you to do likewise. Also, though your horse 'The Terror,' as the stable-boys call him, is not even in the betting, it almost seems, from what I can gather, that they meant to nobble him also. Therefore I think you were wiser to return at once, and I am anxious to see you on another matter as well. Your bets with Carnaby and Chichester have somehow got about and are the talk of the town, and from what I hear, much to your disparagement, I fear.
A pity to shorten your stay in the country, but under the circumstances, most advisable.
Yours ever, etc.,
DICK.
P.S. My love and service to the Duchess, Cleone and the Capt.
Now here Barnabas looked at Cleone, and sighed, and Cleone sighing also, nodded her head:
"You must go," said she, very softly, and sighed again.
"Yes, I must go, and yet—it is so very soon, Cleone!"