“Heaven grant that the necessity will never again be so great!” murmured Johan, indistinctly.
“I—I did not understand,” faltered Lindley, reaching the saddle with difficulty.
“I said—why I said,” stammered Johan, “Heaven be praised that there would be no more necessity for play acting.”
Arrived at The Jolly Grig, Master Marmaduke Bass’ perturbed face boded ill for his surgical skill.
“Hast heard the news, my master?” he cried, before he saw the condition of his guest. “Ah, Mr. Lindley, ’tis about a friend of your own, too—a friend who was with you here not a week ago.”
“I—I care not for your news, whatever it may be, whomever it may be about,” groaned Lindley, who was near the end of his endurance.
“Master Lindley’s met with highwaymen,” interrupted Johan. “Perchance ’tis the Black Devil himself. He’s wounded and has need of your skill, not of your news.”
“Met with my Lord Farquhart!” cried honest Marmaduke. “But that’s impossible. My Lord Farquhart’s been in prison these twelve hours and more, denounced by his cousin, the Lady Barbara Gordon!”
It would have been hard to say which was the whiter, Master Lindley or Johan, the player’s boy. It would have been difficult to distinguish between their startled voices.
“Lord Farquhart! In prison!”