“To Pevensel?”
“Where else—after what has happened?”
The painter stretched out his hands as though to plant them appealingly on Jeffray’s shoulders. Richard drew two steps back from him with a slight frown.
“Are you mad, sir?—are you mad?”
“No, I am not mad, Dick.”
“They will murder you, sir. I tell you they are desperate men.”
“So am I, Dick,” said the other, simply.
Wilson beat his left fist into his right palm.
“You can’t ride out in such weather. Wait and get help; take your servants with you if you must meddle in this mad business.”
Jeffray appeared unmoved by the suggestion.