He nodded his head significantly. "I shall not let the grass grow under my feet before I am there."
"I cannot think it's Peterby and Jones," resumed Miss Diana. "They are quite as respectable as the Connells, and I don't believe they would ally themselves with Rupert, after what he has done. I don't believe they would work mischief secretly against any one. Anything they may have to do, they'd do openly."
Had Mr. Chattaway prevailed with himself so far as to put his temper and prejudices aside, this might not have been far from his own opinion. He had always, in a resentful sort of way, considered Mr. Peterby an honourable man. But if Peterby was not at the bottom of this, who was? Connell, Connell, and Ray were his town agents.
The very uncertainty only made him the more eager to get to them and set the matter at rest. He knew it was of no use attempting to see Mr. Peterby before ten o'clock, but he would see him then. He ordered his horse to be ready, and rode into Barmester attended by his groom. As ten o'clock struck, he was at their office-door.
A quarter-of-an-hour's detention, and then he was admitted to Mr. Peterby's room. That gentleman was sweeping a pile of open letters into a corner of the table at which he sat, and the master of Trevlyn Hold shrewdly suspected that his waiting had been caused by Mr. Peterby's opening and reading them. He proceeded at once to the business that brought him there, and taking his own letter out of his pocket, handed it to Mr. Peterby.
"Connell, Connell, and Ray are your agents in London, I believe? They used to be."
"And are still," said Mr. Peterby. "What is this?"
"Be so good as to read it," replied Mr. Chattaway.
The lawyer ran his eyes over it carelessly, as it seemed to those eyes watching him. Then he looked up. "Well?"
"In writing this letter to me—I received it, you perceive, by post this morning, if you'll look at the date—were Connell and Connell instructed by you?"