“But Master Holtspur has visitors in the night time, you think?”
“Ay! that he have—lots o’ ’em.”
“Who are they?”
“Doan’t know neer a one o’ ’em. They be all strangers to these parts—leastwise they appear so—as they come ridin’, kivered wi’ mud an’ dust, like after makin’ a goodish bit o’ a journey. There’ll be a big gatherin’ o’ ’em theer nex’ Sunday night—considerin’ the letters that’s gone. I took six myself, an’ Dick Dancey as many more—to say nothing o’ a bunch carried to the west end o’ the county by a fellow I doan’t know nothin’ about. It be a meeting o’ some sort, I take it.”
“On next Sunday night, you say?”
The question was evidently asked with a keen interest: for the revelations which Will Walford was making had all at once changed the jocular air of his interrogator into one of undisguised eagerness.
“Next Sunday night?”
“At what hour?”
“Twelve o’ the clock.”
“You are sure about the hour?”