“That’s my old horse, sir, that I drive myself.”
“Let me have that in my shafts,” said the Squire, “and I’ll make it good to you.”
In a few minutes they were on their way again with their faces to Hereford, and the landlord’s horse, who had good blood in his veins, had put his head into the collar. The reason that they had been unsuccessful in getting what they wanted was simple enough; every pair was out on the road for Harry.
The long tedium of the miles seemed interminable till they reached Welchurch, and the white faces of the milestones as they went past were the only things either man had the heart to notice. They were rewarded at last by the sight of the inn and by finding on inquiry that there was a light chaise and a pair of horses to be got. They took their seats grimly and set off on the next stage at a gallop.
It was twenty minutes past eleven when they drew up at the Green Dragon in Hereford, and the Squire and the Vicar got out, stiff after thirty miles of sitting cramped in their seats. They did not expect Harry to leave his carriage at so prominent a place as the chief hotel in Hereford, should he mean to stay in the town, but they looked round the courtyard for the possible sign of an arrival. The place was quiet and vacant as they asked hurriedly for news, and, finding none, started for a humbler inn hard by at which they hoped they might come upon some trace of the couple. Sure enough, as they entered its precincts, they saw a carriage, splashed with mud and standing empty; beside it was a pair of unharnessed horses being groomed by two stable-helpers.
“Where has that carriage come from?” inquired Mr. Fenton of one.
The lad stopped hissing through his teeth and stood with the brush midway between himself and his horse.
“Can’t say, I’m sure. I don’t know nothin’ about it.”
“But how long has it been in, boy?”