“This is not my house,” I says, speaking low, “but I could get you food and drink if you have need.”
“None, master,” says he. “At such times as these we must take no risk for the sake of carnal delights.”
“But is there no answer to this packet?” I says. “Did not they that sent you——”
“You will answer the message in person, master, I doubt not,” he says. “Fare you well—the Lord protect you.”
The darkness swallowed him up ere he reached the open door of the courtyard, but I lingered a moment in the porch and listened to the sound of his horse’s feet on the road outside. I heard him ride to the corner. The horse broke into a quick trot: I knew by the sound that the man was making along the road to Pomfret.
I went back into the house. A stable-lad nodded his head by the kitchen fire, and Gregory was coming from the cellar with a mug of ale.
“’Tis for the man without, Master Richard,” says he. “On such a night——”
“The man is gone,” says I. “He would stay for naught—’tis but a book he has brought me—drink the ale yourself, Gregory.”
I hastened to my own chamber and broke the seal of the packet, which bore my name and address in Matthew Richardson’s hand. There was little writing within for anybody to read, but the lines signified much to my eyes.