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  He bowed himself out with a flourish, leaving Pen in a state of considerable trepidation. In the tap-room, he called for paper, ink, a pen, and some brandy, and sat down at a table in one corner to write a careful letter to Sir Richard. It took time, for he was not apt with a pen, and much brandy, but it was finished at last to his satisfaction. He looked round rather owlishly for wafers, but the tapster had brought him none, so he folded the note into a screw, wrote Sir Richard’s name on it in a flourishing scrawl, and told the tapster to give it to Sir Richard upon his return to the inn. After that he went away, not quite steadily, but full of chuckling glee at his own ingenuity.

  The tapster, who was busy serving drinks, left the twisted note on the bar while he hurried to the other end of the room with beer for a clamorous party of country-men. It was here that Captain Trimble, coming into the tap-room from the stableyard, found it.

  Captain Trimble, who had spent a fruitless day in attempting to discover some trace of Jimmy Yarde in Bristol, was hot, and tired, and in no very good temper. He sat down on a high stool at the bar, and began to wipe his face with a large handkerchief. It was as he was restoring the handkerchief to his pocket that the note, and its superscription, caught his eye. He was well-acquainted with Mr Brandon’s handwriting, and he recognized it at once. It did not at first surprise him that Mr Brandon should have written to Sir Richard Wyndham; he supposed them to be of the same fashionable set. But as he looked idly down at the screw of paper thoughts of the wild-goose chase upon which Sir Richard had sent him took strong possession of his mind, and he wondered, not for the first time during that exasperating day, whether Sir Richard could have had a motive in dispatching him to Bristol. The note began to assume a sinister aspect; suspicion darkened the already warm colour in the Captain’s cheeks; and after staring at the note for a minute, he cast a quick look round, saw that no one was watching him, and deftly palmed it.

  The tapster came back to the bar, but by the time he had recollected the note, Captain Trimble had retired to a high-backed settle by the empty fireplace, and was calling for a can of ale. At a convenient moment, he unscrewed the twist of paper, and read its contents.

  ‘My very dear Richard,’ had written Mr Brandon, ‘I am desolated to find that you have gone out. I should like to continue our conversation. When I tell you that I have been privileged to meet your nephew, my dear Richard, I feel that you will appreciate the wisdom of meeting me again. You would not wish me to talk, but a paltry twelve thousand is not enough to close my mouth, which, however, I am willing to do, tho’ not for a less sum than I have it in my power to obtain by Other Means. Should you wish to discuss this delicate matter, I shall be in the spinney at ten o’clock this evening. If you do not come there, I shall understand that you have Withdrawn your Objection to my disposing of Certain Property as I choose, and I fancy that it would be Unwise of you to mention our dealings in this matter to anyone, either now or later.’

  Captain Trimble read this missive twice before folding it again into its original twist. The mention of Pen he found obscure, and of no particular interest. There was apparently a disreputable secret in some way connected with Sir Richard’s young nephew, but the Captain did not immediately perceive what profit was to be made out of it. Far more arresting was the thinly veiled reference to the Brandon necklace. The Captain’s eyes smouldered as he thought this over, and his massive jaw worked a little. He had suspected Beverley’s good faith from the moment that Jimmy Yarde had been thrust on him as an accomplice. The matter seemed as clear as crystal now. Beverley and Yarde had hatched a plot to cheat him of his share in the fortune, and when Beverley had been raving against him for blundering – very convincingly he had raved too – he had actually had the necklace in his pocket. Well, Mr Brandon would have to learn that it was not wise to try to bubble Horace Trimble, and still less wise to leave unsealed notes lying about in a common tap-room. As for Sir Richard, the Captain found his part in these tortuous proceedings very difficult to fathom. He seemed to know something about the diamonds, but he was far too wealthy a man, the Captain considered, to have the least interest in their worth in terms of guineas. But Sir Richard had undoubtedly meddled in the affair, and the Captain wished with all his heart that he could discover a way to pay him in full for his interference.

  Captain Trimble was naturally a man of violence, but although he would have liked very much to spoil Sir Richard’s handsome face, he wasted no more than a couple of minutes over this pleasing dream. Sir Richard, if it came to fisticuffs, would enjoy the encounter far more than would his assailant. A more determined assault, on a dark night, by a couple of stout men armed with clubs, might have a better chance of success, but even this scheme had a drawback. Sir Richard had been set upon twice before, by hardy rogues who planned to rob him. He had not been robbed, and he had not been attacked again. He was marked down by every cut-throat and robber in the Rogues’ Calendar as dangerous, one who carried pistols, and could draw and fire with a speed and a deadly accuracy which made him a most undesirable man to molest.

  Regretfully, the Captain decided that Sir Richard must be left alone, for the present, at all events.

  By this time the tapster had discovered the loss of Mr Brandon’s note. Everyone in the room disclaimed all knowledge of its whereabouts. Captain Trimble drained his can, and carried it over to the bar. As he set it down, he said: ‘Isn’t that a bit of paper I see?’

  No one could see anything, but that might have been because the Captain bent so quickly to pick it up. When he straightened himself, the screw of paper was between his fingers. The tapster took it with a word of thanks, and gave it to one of the waiters, who had come into the tap-room for a pint of burgundy, and told him to deliver it to Sir Richard. Captain Trimble, quite as well-pleased as Beverley had been, betook himself to the coffee-room, and ordered a sustaining meal.

  Sir Richard, meanwhile, had returned to the inn. He found Pen awaiting him in the parlour, curled up in a big chair and eating an apple. ‘This passion for munching raw fruit!’ he remarked. ‘You look a very urchin.’

  She twinkled at him. ‘Well, I am hungry. Did you – did you have a pleasant day with my Aunt Almeria, sir?’

  ‘I hope with all my heart,’ said Sir Richard, eyeing her with some severity, ‘that you spent the day in the greatest possible discomfort. I wish it had rained.’

  ‘I didn’t. I visited my home, and I went to all the particular places Piers and I used to hide in, when people wanted us to do our lessons. Only I hadn’t anything to eat.’

  ‘I am glad,’ said Sir Richard. ‘Do you know that I have not only found myself in a position where I was forced to lie, and dissemble, and practise the most shocking deceit, but I have also been obliged to consort for five hours with one of the most commonplace young cubs it has ever been my ill-fortune to meet?’

  ‘I knew Fred would come with my aunt! Doesn’t he look just like a fish, sir?’

  ‘Yes, a hake. But you cannot divert me from what I wish to say. Half an hour’s conversation with your aunt has convinced me that you are an unprincipled brat.’

  ‘Did she say unkind things of me?’ Miss Creed wrinkled her brow. ‘I don’t think I am unprincipled, precisely.’

  ‘You are a menace to all law-abiding and respectable citizens,’ said Sir Richard.

  She seemed gratified. ‘I didn’t think I was as important as that.’

  ‘Look what you have done to me!’ said Sir Richard.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think you are very law-abiding or respectable,’ objected Pen.

  ‘I was once, but it seems a long time ago.’

  She finished her apple. ‘Well, I am sorry you are feeling cross, for I think I should tell you something which you may not be pleased about.’

  He looked at her with misgiving. ‘Let me know the worst!’

  ‘It was the stammering-man,’ said Pen, not very lucidl