“To take the responsibility of making Mr. Davager’s bed off your hands for this morning only,” says I.
“Any more orders?” says she.
“One more,” says I. “I want to hire Sam for the morning. Put it down in the order-book that he’s to be brought round to my office at ten.”
In case you should think Sam was a man, I’d better perhaps tell you he was a pony. I’d made up my mind that it would be beneficial to Tom’s health, after the tarts, if he took a constitutional airing on a nice hard saddle in the direction of Grimwith Abbey.
“Anything else?” says the head chambermaid.
“Only one more favor,” says I. “Would my boy Tom be very much in the way if he came, from now till ten, to help with the boots and shoes, and stood at his work close by this window which looks out on the staircase?”
“Not a bit,” says the head chambermaid.
“Thank you,” says I; and stepped back to my office directly.
When I had sent Tom off to help with the boots and shoes, I reviewed the whole case exactly as it stood at that time.
There were three things Mr. Davager might do with the letter. He might give it to his friend again before ten—in which case Tom would most likely see the said friend on the stairs. He might take it to his friend, or to some other friend, after ten—in which case Tom was ready to follow him on Sam the pony. And, lastly, he might leave it hidden somewhere in his room at the inn—in which case I was all ready for him with a search-warrant of my own granting, under favor always of my friend the head chambermaid. So far I had my business arrangements all gathered up nice and compact in my own hands. Only two things bothered me; the terrible shortness of the time at my disposal, in case I failed in my first experiments, for getting hold of the letter, and that queer inscription which I had copied out of the pocketbook: