“Has he a lady with him?” said the new-comer. His voice and manner were manly and frank,—a chivalrous fellow, one of us, one of the comradry of knights errant.
“Mr. Wade will give an account of her.”
“Come in to Brent,” said I, “and we will talk matters over.”
Ruby, model host, cleared the way for a parley whose interest he divined.
“I will see after your horses. Don’t lose your appetite for supper. We have potatoes!”
“Potatoes!!” cried Biddulph. “Not I!”
“Yes, and flapjacks and molasses, ready in half an hour.”
“Flapjacks and molasses! Potatoes and flapjacks!—Yes, and molasses!” Biddulph again exclaimed. “Jewel of a Ruby! This is the Ossa on Pelion of gourmandise. How underdone and overdone all the banquets of civilization seem! I charge thee, Ruby, when the potatoes and the flapjacks and molasses are ready, that thou peal a jubilee upon the bell. Now, Mr. Wade, let me see this wounded friend, and hear and tell.”
The two gentlemen met with cordiality. Brent, I believe, had never identified Miss Clitheroe with the lady Biddulph fled from, and I had never mentioned my suspicions.
“Not one word, John!” said the Briton, “until I know what you have done with Ellen Clitheroe. Is she safe?”