‘Well, sir, it’s something between fifteen and sixteen year.’
‘Gracious powers!’ vociferated Ainslie, striking his fist on the table. ‘I believe the man was right.’
The landlord stretched out one hand imploringly towards his excited visitor.
‘What now?’ inquired Reginald, who was vainly endeavouring to peruse the writing with which the paper was covered.
‘I want you to give me back that paper, sir.’
‘Be good enough, landlord, to leave it with me for the present, and bring me something to eat!’
Old Hobb looked wistfully at the scrap of paper which his visitor was handling, and proceeded to the larder, with considerable misgiving expressed on his countenance. When mine host at length returned, he found his guest a trifle more composed. Reginald Ainslie was still poring over the mysterious piece of paper; but it was evident, from his disappointed mien, that he was considerably perplexed.
‘Landlord,’ he said in a low voice, when the arrangements for his meal were complete, ‘close the door!’
Hobb Dipping obeyed, and then stood waiting, as if for further orders.
‘Sit down,’ said the lieutenant.