So Barnabas took the letter and broke the seal. It was a very short letter, but as he read Barnabas frowned blacker than ever.
"Mr. Shrig," said he very earnestly as he folded and pocketed the letter, "will you do something for me—will you take a note to my servant, John Peterby? You'll find him at the 'Oak and Ivy' in Hawkhurst village."
"Vich, seeing as you're a pal, sir, I vill. But, sir," continued Mr. Shrig, as Barnabas scribbled certain instructions for Peterby on a page of his memorandum, "vot about yourself—you ain't a-going back there, are ye?" and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the barn, now some distance behind them.
"Of course," said Barnabas, "to keep my appointment."
"D'ye think it's safe—now?"
"Quite,—thanks to you," answered Barnabas. "Here is the note, and if you wish, John Peterby will drive you back to London with him."
"V'y, thank'ee sir,—'e shall that,—but you, now?" Mr. Shrig paused, and, somewhat diffidently drew from his side pocket a very business-like, brass-bound pistol, which he proffered to Barnabas, "jest in case they should 'appen to come back, sir," said he.
But Barnabas laughingly declined it, and shook his chubby hand instead.
"Vell," said Mr. Shrig, pocketing note and weapon, "you're true game, sir, yes, game's your breed, and I only 'ope as you don't give me a case—though good murder cases is few and far between, as I've told you afore. Good-by, sir, and good luck."
So saying, Mr. Shrig nodded, touched the broad rim of his castor, and strode away through the gathering shadows.