The first hint I had was from a tenant, who commented on the Master’s stay, and yet more on his security; for this tenant was a Jacobitish sympathiser, and had lost a son at Culloden, which gave him the more critical eye. “There is one thing,” said he, “that I cannot but think strange; and that is how he got to Cockermouth.”
“To Cockermouth?” said I, with a sudden memory of my first wonder on beholding the man disembark so point-de-vice after so long a voyage.
“Why, yes,” says the tenant, “it was there he was picked up by Captain Crail. You thought he had come from France by sea? And so we all did.”
I turned this news a little in my head, and then carried it to Mr. Henry. “Here is an odd circumstance,” said I, and told him.
“What matters how he came, Mackellar, so long as he is here?” groans Mr. Henry.
“No, sir,” said I, “but think again! Does not this smack a little of some Government connivance? You know how much we have wondered already at the man’s security.”
“Stop,” said Mr. Henry. “Let me think of this.” And as he thought, there came that grim smile upon his face that was a little like the Master’s. “Give me paper,” said he. And he sat without another word and wrote to a gentleman of his acquaintance—I will name no unnecessary names, but he was one in a high place. This letter I despatched by the only hand I could depend upon in such a case—Macconochie’s; and the old man rode hard, for he was back with the reply before even my eagerness had ventured to expect him. Again, as he read it, Mr. Henry had the same grim smile.
“This is the best you have done for me yet, Mackellar,” says he. “With this in my hand I will give him a shog. Watch for us at dinner.”
At dinner accordingly Mr. Henry proposed some very public appearance for the Master; and my lord, as he had hoped, objected to the danger of the course.
“Oh!” says Mr. Henry, very easily, “you need no longer keep this up with me. I am as much in the secret as yourself.”