"Well, stop at Mr. Jarlcot's house."
Away went the chaise, with its thin roll of dust, like the smoke of a hedge-fire, all along the road, till they pulled up at Mr. Jarlcot's house.
Out jumped Mr. Marston, and knocked a sharp summons with the brass knocker on the hall-door.
The maid opened the door, and stood on the step with a mysterious look of inquiry in Mr. Marston's face. The rumour that was already slowly spreading in Golden Friars had suddenly been made sure by a telegraphic message from Lemuel Blount to Mr. Jarlcot. His good wife had read it just five minutes before Mr. Marston's arrival.
"When is Mr. Jarlcot to be home again?"
"Day after to-morrow, please, sir."
"Well, when he comes, don't forget to tell him I called. No, this is better," and he wrote in pencil on his card the date and the words, "Called twice—most anxious to see Mr. Jarlcot;" and laid it on the table. "Can I see Mr. Spaight?" he inquired.
Tall, stooping Mr. Spaight, the confidential man, with his bald head, spectacles, and long nose, emerged politely, with a pen behind his ear, at this question, from the door of the front room, which was Mr. Jarlcot's office.
"Oh! Mr. Spaight," said Richard Marston, "have you heard from Mr. Jarlcot to-day?"
"A short letter, Mr. Marston, containing nothing of business—only a few items of news; he's in London till to-morrow—he saw Mr. Blount there."