“Just so,” he said. “It is Mr. Stewart’s. And I warrant you have others like it, and could prove the fact if it were needed. No—don’t read it, miss, if you please,” he continued. “You can tell me without that whether the gentleman has any friends in these parts.”
“None.”
“That you know of?”
“I never heard of any,” she answered. Her astonishment was so great that she did not now think of refusing to answer. And besides, here was his handwriting. And why did he not come? The clock was on the point of striking; at this hour, at this minute, they should have been leaving the door of the inn.
“No, miss,” Bishop answered, exchanging a look with the landlady. “Just so, you’ve never heard of any. Then one more question, if you please. You are going north, to Scotland, to be married to-day? Now which way, I wonder?”
She frowned at him in silence. She began to see his drift.
“By Keswick and Carlisle?” he continued, watching her face. “Or by Kendal and Penrith? Or by Cockermouth and Whitehaven? But no. There’s only the Isle of Man packet out of Whitehaven.”
“It goes on to Dumfries,” she said. The words escaped her in spite of herself.
He smiled as he shook his head.
“No,” he said; “it’d be a very long way round if it did. But Mr. Stewart told you that, did he? I see he did. Well, you’ve had an escape, miss. That’s all I can say.”