"Yes, madam, you need have no fear. The assizes have not yet begun in
Dorchester."
Pursuit was behind, but it was the pursuit of a friend. Whether it was the fault of the horseman or his mounts, disaster rode with Martin Fairley. To begin with, his horse cast a shoe, and by the time a smith was found and his work done, an hour had been wasted. Before the end of the first stage the horse collapsed; there was considerable difficulty in getting a remount, and the animal procured was a sorry beast for pace. Martin fretted at the delay, and cursed the adverse fates which so hindered him. Once he was within three miles of the coach, and then his horse went dead lame. Hours were lost before he could get another horse and resume the journey, and during those hours much might have happened.
The coach had left only an hour when he arrived at the inn at Witley.
"Yes, the travellers were a lady and her maid," the landlord told him.
"Going to Dorchester?" Martin asked.
"Yes. They started early."
"Has anyone inquired for them?"
"No."
"Some breakfast, landlord—ale and bread and cheese will do—and a horse at once."
"Yes, sir."