“And now we must be going,” he added, a few minutes later. “You know my instructions, Jacob. You’ll follow to Coombe at the end of the week. If any one calls, tell them—tell them I shan’t be back in town for six months at least.”
“Very well, Master Hugh,” the feeble old man replied, smiling at his master’s humour. “May God bless you both, sir!”
“Thank you, Jacob, thank you,” Hugh replied heartily, as his man withdrew. “He can’t make it out, I think,” he remarked to Jack, with a laugh. “It’ll be a fresh experience for him to have a mistress. But I feel sure she’ll be kind to him.”
Then they both finally examined themselves in a long mirror in the corner of the room, and, putting on their gloves, left the house.
An hour later the bell of the outer door of the chambers rang, and Jacob, still wearing his white satin rosette, answered.
On throwing open the door he was confronted by an unkempt wretchedly clad young woman, with tousled hair poking from under a battered crape bonnet, and a ragged shawl about her shoulders.
“Is Mr Trethowen in?” she inquired, in a voice that was refined, and certainly not in keeping with her habiliments.
“No, he’s not,” the old man replied sharply, for a woman of that class was not a desirable visitor.
“Where can I find him?” she asked anxiously. “I must see him, and at once.”
“I tell you he’s not here.”