“I swear to you,” continued the scrivener “they are in no way at my disposal—they have been delivered to me by tale—I am to pay them over to Lord Dalgarno, whose boy waits for them, and I could not skelder one piece out of them, without risk of hue and cry.”
“Can you not put off the delivery?” said the bravo, his huge hand still fumbling with one of the bags, as if his fingers longed to close on it.
“Impossible,” said the scrivener, “he sets forward to Scotland to-morrow.”
“Ay!” said the bully, after a moment's thought—“Travels he the north road with such a charge?”
“He is well accompanied,” added the scrivener; “but yet—”
“But yet—but what?” said the bravo.
“Nay, I meant nothing,” said the scrivener.
“Thou didst—thou hadst the wind of some good thing,” replied Colepepper; “I saw thee pause like a setting dog. Thou wilt say as little, and make as sure a sign, as a well-bred spaniel.”
“All I meant to say, captain, was, that his servants go by Barnet, and he himself, with his page, pass through Enfield Chase; and he spoke to me yesterday of riding a soft pace.”
“Aha!—Comest thou to me there, my boy?”