"Who is it? and what does he want?" said the stout figure, approaching by two or three paces.
"I am Mr. Hardy, son of your husband's doctor," was the reply, "and I have called for Miss Armstrong's trunk. It stands ready corded in her bedroom, and I am in a hurry."
"Where is Miss Armstrong going?" said the stout figure, who was indeed Mrs. Armstrong.
"To the ends of the earth to escape you," he answered. "Bax," he roared, "fling your reins over the gate-post, and come and lend me a hand to ship the box in your cart."
"The box shall not leave this house without Captain Armstrong's permission," said Mrs. Armstrong, who, poor as the light was, you could see carried a great deal of colour in her face of a streaky or venous nature; her eyes were small, and gazed with rapid winks as though they snapped at you as you snap the hammer of a revolver; her bust was immense; her black hair was smoothed like streaks of paint down her cheeks and round her ears, and she wore a cap with something in it that nodded, giving more significance to her words than they needed.
"Where is Captain Armstrong?" said the sailor.
"Out," was the reply.
"He'll not care whether I take it or leave it." He could not bring himself to speak even civilly to her. "Whilst you fetch him we'll tranship it, and the captain can get in and argue the point whilst we drive away. Come along, Bax. Sally, show us the road to the young lady's bedroom."
"Maria," exclaimed Mrs. Armstrong, cold and bitter, "go and knock on Constable Rogers's door, and tell him to come here at once."
"Shall I fetch the master also?" said Maria, quivering in her figure in the hot anticipation of rushing out.