“In that case I may as well give it to his lordship’s servant, who can take it up to the house presently.”
“I don’t know if that will be right, sir. She said it was to be called for.”
“Then we call for it. I, his lordship’s cousin, and James, his lordship’s groom. Won’t that do for you?”
“I suppose that will be right, sir,” the girl answered doubtfully. “The letter and the box are both on the table, and I wasn’t to interfere with either of ’em, and I’m not going to it. That’s all I can say.”
The girl was swollen with the importance of her mission as being associated with a mystery, and she was also in lively dread of her very severe mistress, who might come down the lane at any moment and surprise her in some act of dereliction.
Theodore passed her by and went into the sitting-room where he had taken tea with the Kempsters and Cuthbert Ramsay.
A letter lay on the carved oak table in front of the window, and beside the letter there stood a walnut-wood box, eighteen inches by nine. The letter was addressed, in a bold, characteristic hand, to Lord Cheriton. To be called for. The box had a small brass plate upon the lid, and a name engraved upon the plate—
Thomas C. Darcy,
9th Foot.
No one who had ever seen such a box before could doubt that this was a pistol-case. It was unlocked, and Theodore lifted the lid.
One pistol lay in its place, neatly fitted into the velvet-lined receptacle. The place for the second pistol was vacant.