“One moment,” said Mr Boxall. “You said they were asking after me downstairs.”
“She was,” replied General Grampound to this somewhat cryptic enquiry. “Seemed regularly upset. I’m not half blind, Boxall, like some people; I can see through a brick wall as far as most, and I don’t want to be personal—I don’t want to be premature—I don’t want to pretend to know more than I ought to know, but there’s a deuced lucky dog in this room at present, and he’s not me, Boxall.”
“Thanks,” said the lucky dog, shifting about restlessly in bed. “I know you’re a good friend, Grampound. Send that message off at once, like a good fellow. How long does it take a parcel to reach this place from London by post?”
Meanwhile Mr Fanshawe had been writing three important letters in the library. When he had finished and carefully sealed them, he placed them one on top of the other, and looked at his watch.
Dicky had almost forgotten the burglar he was going to trap that night. The other business consumed most of his superfluous energy and thoughts. The readiness with which Violet Lestrange had fallen in with his views might have given a cold-blooded man of the world pause, for, once a girl begins smashing conventions, who knows where she will stop? But Mr Fanshawe, wise in his love, felt no uneasiness on this score; the thing that worried him was the fifteen Irish miles between Glen Druid and Tullagh station.
The three letters he had just written would make everything all right at the other end. This was the hot end of the poker, and it had to be grasped.
Patsy was the person who would help him to grasp it. Patsy he felt to be a tower of strength and ‘cuteness’, if such a simile is permissible. And, rising from the writing-table and putting the letters in his pocket, he went to find Patsy. He had not far to go, for as he came into the big hall Patsy was crossing it with a tray in hand.
“Patsy,” said Mr Fanshawe, “when does the post go out?”
“If you stick your letters in the letter-box be the hall door, sir,” said Patsy, “it will be cleared in half an hour. Jim Murphy takes the letter-bag to Castle Knock.”
“Right!” said Mr Fanshawe. “And, see here, I want to have a shot at the rabbits before dark. I’m going to stroll down to the woods. Rake out a bag to put the cartridges in, and stick on a cap; I want you to follow me.”