“But where in the devil’s name had they hid you? With whom were you riding? He had cause to fear my friend here, Sir Gavin.”
“He’s Roger Galt. He took me out of Charles Craike’s hands, when he held me prisoner in a farmhouse away on the moors miles from here.”
“Galt! A notorious fellow. Highwayman! There’s a price on his head.”
“Yet my father’s friend and mine. I’m safe through him. But for him I should be aboard the ship of one Blunt, smuggler—may be worse; oh, it’s been the prettiest of plots, Mr. Bradbury, and I’ve the wildest of tales for you.”
“So!” he said swiftly. “So! Charles Craike thought to trick us, and you’ve tricked Charles Craike. By heaven, he’ll answer for this—by heaven! My dear sir, I’ve hunted high and low for you. Charles Craike denied all knowledge of you. Old Mr. Edward would not lift a finger. Lord knows and I guess the story our precious gentleman has told him of you. But I’ll lay Charles Craike by the heels yet.”
“Mr. Bradbury,” said I, “your friend here and the runners follow after Galt. I’d have no hurt come to him, for through him, and him only, despite Craike, I’m here and safe ashore. Not that they’re like to take him,” as I stared up the road and saw the riders pulling in, while Roger vanished from view. “Charles Craike has sworn that Roger Galt shall pay for this; I’d not have your friend there play Craike’s part, and set his hands on Galt.”
“I’ll have a word with Sir Gavin,” Mr. Bradbury assented. “Not that ’twill count, for Sir Gavin is set against the fellow, he’s been swearing indeed, for all I might say to the contrary, that not Charles Craike but Galt was responsible for the outrage upon us.”
“You took little hurt from your fall, I trust, Mr. Bradbury.”
“Little save a bad shaking. I was afoot almost at once. And must step it every foot of the way to the village—there’s a tolerable inn there, whither I’ll now lead you, Mr. Craike.”
“And what then?” I asked.