“Beg pardon, Sir Rowland,” said the attendant, “but there's a boy from Mr. Wood, with a message for Lady Trafford.”
“From whom?” vociferated Trenchard.
“From Mr. Wood the carpenter.”
“The same who was here just now?”
“No, Sir Rowland, a much finer boy.”
“'Tis he, by Heaven!” cried Jonathan; “this is lucky. Sir Rowland,” he added, in a deep whisper, “do you agree to my terms?”
“I do,” answered Trenchard, in the same tone.
“Enough!” rejoined Wild; “he shall not return.”
“Have you acquainted him with Lady Trafford's departure?” said the knight, addressing Charcam, with as much composure as he could assume.
“No, Sir Rowland,” replied the attendant, “as you proposed to ride to Saint Albans to-night, I thought you might choose to see him yourself. Besides, there's something odd about the boy; for, though I questioned him pretty closely concerning his business, he declined answering my questions, and said he could only deliver his message to her ladyship. I thought it better not to send him away till I'd mentioned the circumstance to you.”