Everell told him.
“H’m!” said Roughwood. “That explains her maid’s conduct. Somebody had described you to the maid—somebody now up-stairs.”
“Yes, and the maid no sooner tells her of it than she takes the first opportunity to put us on our guard, at the risk even of her good name. What divine compassion! What—”
“And the somebody up-stairs? No doubt your acquaintance of yesterday. Why, he may chance upon us at any moment, and give the alarm. And, if he has mentioned you to the maid, why not to a whole kitchenful of people? ’Tis high time indeed we were out of this place. How slow they are with the horses! We should be in another county by sunset.”
“Ay, dear Will, you should—and must.”
“I should? We should. Here are the horses at last. Come.” Roughwood seized the cloak-bags.
“Nay, Will, I—I will follow a little later,” said Everell, taking his own piece of luggage.
“Later? Are you mad?—Come, come, no nonsense, Charles. You will go with me, of course.”
“From this inn, certainly. But from this neighbourhood not for a—day or two. I mention it now, so that the boy need hear no discussion between us. I will ride with you a mile or so, then take my own way afoot. The boy, of course, must keep his horses together.—I will follow you, I say: I can find your man Budge. Let his house be our rendezvous,—I can find it from your description,—and of course I will appear thereabouts only at night. Instruct him to be on the watch for me. If he can sail before I arrive, make good your own escape, and bid him expect me on his return. That is all, I think; and now to horse.”
“But, my dear lad,—my dear, dear lad,—what folly is this? Hear reason; you must be guided by me. You know not what you would risk—”