“I would rather not, Donald. But it is due to you that I should tell you this: You were not mistaken. There was deadly mischief meant to me; and the pair of them were engaged in it. There! let it rest at that. Now, tell me, Guy said something about the captain’s being set upon by officers of the constablery. How badly was he hurt?”
“Oh, not very bad. He had a bullet through his right arm, below, and another higher up. It don’t prevent him from traveling.”
“Isn’t he afraid of being again recognized by officers of the law?”
“He don’t appear to be. Howsumever, that’s his lookout. I don’t care how quick he gets overhauled. He’s a black-hearted wretch!”
“I agree with you, old man. You don’t know when he will return?”
“I haven’t the least idea anything about it. I don’t know where he’s gone, nor when he’ll come back.”
After this arrangements were perfected—made sure—for the conveying to our hero of intelligence of Tryon’s reappearance at the Cove; and then they separated, Donald and his nephew returning to the landing, while Maitland took his way toward the village, and the inn.
Martin Vanyard, fifty years of age, fat, rosy and robust, loved the handsome son of Hugh Maitland almost as though he had been of his own flesh and blood; and he declared he’d heard nothing for years that had pleased him so much as had Percy’s proposal to take up his quarters beneath his roof.
“Bless yer dear heart! I’ll make ye as comfortable as a prince! Ye’ll come to-day?”
“Yes. We’ll begin with this morning’s breakfast.”