"I don't know what you mean," said the old man.
Mr Lawrence easily perceived that he didn't, and went on his way always hunting with his eyes. Past the bridge he met another old man, a peasant with silver hair, fit, dressed as he was, to walk upon any stage, and immediately take part in any performance that included a peasant, a foster-child, and a baron. This white hair gave him a reverend look, and his legs were strangely bandaged round about, and his smock was a gown in which he could have preached a sermon without exciting much suspicion as to the propriety of his dress.
"Have you seen a letter folded in four lying in the road?" shouted Mr Lawrence.
"I'm a little 'ard of 'earing," was the answer, and the picturesque old man put his hand to his ear shellwise.
Mr Lawrence went close to him and shouted.
"Gard bless your worship," said the old man in a sweet voice and a face beautiful with the touches of the pencil of time upon a countenance originally open, gracious, and good, "I ha'nt received a letter since her last from my poor old woife, and that 'ull be twenty year ago, as I know by the laying of the foundation stone——" Mr Lawrence broke away, and asked no more questions during the rest of his walk.
He saw no letter—nothing like it. He went on board the Minorca, and seeing the mate at the main-hatch, asked in an off-hand way if a copy of a letter had been found in the cabin, or any other part of the ship that morning.
"No, sir."
And there was an end. With wrath in his heart, and cursing himself again and again as a barnyard idiot fit for spread eagling only to carry such a missive as that about with him when its miscarriage might prove his destruction, might even now be working it, he stepped on to the wharf and came across Paul.
"Here!" said he.