Judith summoned the herdsman who had discovered the tracks in the mud.
“You are sure it was the track of young Master Vaughan you saw?”
“Sartin sure, Missa Jessuron—one ob ’em war.”
“And the other? What was it like? Was it also the track of a man?”
“Ya, missa; ’twar a man’s track—leastwise, I nebber seed a woman track big as dat ’ere. Sartin de sole dat make it wor de fut ob a man, though it wa’n’t the boot ob a gen’l’man like young Massa Vaughan.”
Whip in hand, the Jewess stood reflecting.
A messenger might it be? From whom, if not from Kate Vaughan? With whom else was he acquainted? Such strange conditions of relationship! The mysterious mode by which the messenger must have approached him: for fresh mud upon the bark of the tree told that he who had climbed up must have been the same who had made the footmarks by the garden wall. The articles found in the hammock had been flung down to awake and warn the sleeper.
Clearly a secret message, delivered by a crafty messenger! Clearly a surreptitious departure!
And the motive for all this? No common one?—it could not be. No errand after game. The fowling-piece was gone; but that was no evidence of an intention to spend the day in sporting. Herbert was in the habit of taking his gun, whenever he strolled out into the fields or forest. But the other and necessary paraphernalia had been left behind! A shooting excursion? Nothing of the sort!
A messenger with a love message—a summons willingly accepted—promptly responded to!