"Who was that pale-looking fellow who wished to speak with you yesterday, Mr. Rumbald, at the Mitre?"
He looked sharply at me for an instant.
"His name is Thompson," said he. "He is one of my malting-men."
Then I knew that he had lied. A man does not invent the name of Keeling, but very easily the name of Thompson. So I saw that Rumbald had not yet lost all discretion; and indeed, for all his talk, he had hardly spoken a name that I could get hold of.
After a while I ventured on another sentence which suited my purpose, and at the same time confirmed him in his own view.
"If by any chance His Majesty should not come to-day—will it be done, do you think, to-morrow? Shall you wait till he does come?"
He shook his head and lied again very promptly.
"If it is not done to-day, it will never be done."
Looking back on the affair now, I truly do wonder at the adroitness with which we both talked. There was scarcely a slip on either side, though we were at cross-purposes if ever men were. But I suppose that in both of us there was a very great tension of mind—as of men walking on the edge of a precipice; and it was the knowledge of that which saved us both. After dinner I said I would walk again out of doors; and he thought it was mere affectation, since I must know by now that His Majesty was not coming.
"Well," I said, "if by any mischance His Majesty doth not come to-day, I will get back to town."