“You’d be very welcome, James,” the magistrate had answered; and Eastwood had straightway sought Matthew Moon.
They repaired to the magistrate’s house at eight that evening; they found him in his blandest mood. His lids drooped more than ever; his finger-tips met silkily; and he rang for wine.
“We must have wine,” he remarked. “You, James, or your daughter, or our good friend Monjoy (or all three), are to be congratulated, I believe? We must drink their healths. A happy event! I should have liked well to assist at the ceremony, but business—His Majesty’s business——”
“To be sure; I thank ye, John. Ay, there were stirrings; ye’d ha’ laughed to see Cope o’ th’ pile o’ fleeces——”
“Ah, Cope was there? An oddity, that man; a crooked sort of personage; a man, I should say, not readily understood.”
Matthew Moon was frowning at his untasted wine. He looked up.
“What’s that you told James about Cope?” he demanded; and again the magistrate’s horse-face grew bland.
“I told James? Surely not!... Ah! I remember; I did mention that Willis seemed in excellent health and spirits. A very capable fellow, that Willis—zealous. I wish I had his like for a clerk. A clerk who can be trusted on a delicate errand——”
“What sort o’ delicate errand?” Moon demanded again; and the magistrate’s brows rose.
“—who can be trusted on a delicate errand, why, I’ve been looking for one this five years!”