"I am going to the boarding-house of a Miss Smith. I understand there is a lawyer there, the best in the State. I will not detain you, sir. Go on, drivah; we are much too late now."
The owner of the voice leaned back in the surrey. He was evidently alarmed by his surroundings; but a stranger might well be excused for showing some dislike of the long, steep road, the extreme solitude, and the sudden appearance of a man who barred the way.
Durgan turned his light on the face of the driver. "What's the meaning of this?" he asked sternly.
The man returned his inspection with a queer, sphinx-like look that had in it something of the nature of a grin and a wink, but gave no indication as to the cause of his humor. He grumbled as he clumsily tumbled off his seat. Then, opening the surrey door, he remarked, in a casual tone, that his horses could go no further.
"If this 'ere gentleman doesn't keep summer hotels and big-bug lawyers handy, I dunno anyone as does 'bout here. As for Miss Smith's house, we'll have a rest first."
Again the face of the invalid, keen and drawn by pain or passion, was thrust forward from the shadow of the carriage. His voice was shrill enough to sound at first like a shriek. "Look here, my man; you needn't suppose the money I've got to pay you is in my pockets. It's in Hilyard, where you'll get all the currency you want when you've done my work; but you'll gain nothing by stopping here."
On seeing Durgan more clearly he looked about him in absolute terror, grasping the rug that impeded his movements as if wondering only how to fling himself out of their reach, or else not knowing whether to argue or ingratiate.
The driver held the door, taking the volley of weak-voiced profanity in the passive way common to the region.
Durgan's amusement at the driver's mastery, and at being himself so obviously mistaken for a robber, was overlaid by astonishment and curiosity.