“Thank you,” he answered. He left the post-office as he spoke.
Just outside he ran almost into Jacob’s arms.
“What are you doing here?” cried his master with a scowl.
“I beg your pardon, sir; I saw you go out, and I thought I’d run after you, sir, to suggest that the police should be telegraphed for from Pitstow.”
“Aye, a good thought,” answered Rowton; “go into the office and send a wire off immediately.”
Jacob lingered outside the post-office until his master’s figure had vanished from view. Rowton did not once look round. When Jacob could see him no longer, he too, went into the post-office.
“I want to send a telegram,” he said to the post-mistress; “please give me a form.”
“Dear, dear, you must be all gone mad on the subject of telegrams,” she answered; “there’s Mr. Rowton sending off the queerest words, enough to frighten a body. Oh, I am not going to tell, so don’t you think it, Jacob Short.”
She showed him with a motion of her hand where the telegraph forms were lying. As she did so, his eyes met hers with a fixed and peculiar glance. She faintly nodded to him, and then her face turned pale.
“Run, Polly,” she said to a rosy-cheeked girl who was helping her, “and tell Hudson to be quick; tell him it’s time the post was off, or he will miss the train at Pitstow.”