Part 31 (1/2)
”Pit my poor wits against those of Sir Humphrey Challoner,” he replied gaily.
”I don't quite understand.”
He came up quite close to her and tried to meet her eyes.
”But you trust me?” he asked.
And she murmured,-
”Absolutely.”
”May Heaven bless you for that word!” he said earnestly. ”Then will you deign to do as I shall direct?”
”Entirely.”
”Very well! Then whilst friend Stich will fetch my hat for me, will you write out a formal plaint, signed with your full name, stating that last night on the Heath you were waylaid and robbed by a man, whom I, your courier, saw quite plainly, and whom you have desired me to denounce?”
”But...”
”I entreat you there's not a moment to be lost,” he urged, taking pen, ink and paper from the old-fas.h.i.+oned desk close by, and placing them before her.
”I'll do as you wish, of course,” she said, ”but what is your purpose?”
”For the present to take your ladys.h.i.+p's plaint over to his Honour, Squire West, at the Court House.”
”You'll be seen and recognised and...”
”Not I. One or two of the yokels may perhaps guess who I am, but they'd do me no harm. I entreat you, do as I bid you. Every second wasted may imperil our chance of safety.”
He had such an air of quiet command about him that she instinctively obeyed him and wrote out the plaint as he directed, then gave it in his charge. He seemed buoyant and full of hope, and though her heart misgave her, she managed to smile cheerfully when he took leave of her.
”I humbly beg of you,” he said finally, as having kissed her finger-tips he prepared to go, ”to wait here against my return, and on no account to take heed of anything you may see or hear for the next half-hour. An I mistake not,” he added with a merry twinkle in his grey eyes, ”there'll be strange doings at Bra.s.sington this noon.”
”But you...?” she cried anxiously.
”Nay! I pray you have no fear for me. In your sweet cause I would challenge the world, and, if you desired it, would remained unscathed.”
When he had gone, she sighed, and obedient to his wish, sat waiting patiently for his return in the dingy little parlour which awhile ago his presence had made so bright.
It was at this moment that Master Mittachip, after his interview with the beadle, was in close conversation with Sir Humphrey Challoner at the Royal George.
Outside the inn, Bathurst turned to John Stich, who had closely followed him.
”How's my Jack o' Lantern?” he asked quickly.
”As fresh as a daisy, Captain,” replied the smith. ”I've rubbed him down myself, and he has had a lovely feed.”
”That's good. You have my saddle with you?”