“Ah I now I understan’ ye. Master Henry, King’s cooreer ’ideed! That ’ud be a tidyish bizness for Gregory Garth. If I beant that myself tho’, I’ve been and met one as is. It war all ’bout this bit o’ a letter I coomed over here the night—else I’d a made my call at a more seezonable hour.”
“Is it for me?”
“Well, Master Henry, it aint ’zactly ’dressed to you, nor written to ye neyther; but, as far as I’m able to make out the meenin’ o’ ’t, I think as how there be somethin’ in’t you oughter know about. But ye can tell better after you ha’ read it.”
Gregory handed the letter to the cavalier; who now perceived, that, although the seal was intact, the envelope had been torn open at the edges.
“A king’s despatch! And you’ve opened it, Gregory?”
“Ye-es, Master Henry,” drawled the footpad. “It coomed somehow apart atween my fingers. May be I’ve done wrong? I didn’t know it war a king’s despatch. And may be if I had know’d,” he added in an under tone, “I should a opened it all the same.”
The cavalier looked at the superscription:—
For
Ye Captain Scarthe, Command: H.M. Royal Cuirassiers,
Bulstrode Park, Shire of Buckingham.
“This is not for me, Garth. It is addressed to—”
“I know all that, Master Henry; though I didn’t last night when I got the thing. I heerd o’ their coomin’ up the road this mornin’, but—”