“I do,” replied Rust.
“The varmint shall be speedily unearthed,” said Wilder, rushing to the spot.
In another instant the shadow manifested itself in a substantial little personage, booted, spurred, and mud-bespattered. He was brought before our highwayman, who had meanwhile vaulted into his saddle.
“Mr. Coates!” cried Dick, bursting into a loud laugh at the ridiculous figure presented to his view, “or the mud deceives me.”
“It does not deceive you, Captain Turpin,” replied the attorney; “you do, indeed, behold that twice unfortunate person.”
“What brings you here?” asked Dick. “Ah! I see. You are come to pay me my wager.”
“I thought you gave me a discharge for that,” rejoined Coates, unable, even in his distress, to resist the too-tempting quibble.
“True, but it was in blank,” replied Turpin, readily; “and that don’t hold good in law, you know. You have thrown away a second chance. Play or pay, all the world over. I shan’t let you off so easily this time, depend upon it. Come, post the pony, or take your measure on that sod. No more replications or rejoinders, sir. Down with the dust. Fake his clies, pals. Let us see what he has about him.”
“In the twinkling of a bed-post,” replied Rust. “We’ll turn him inside out. What’s here?” cried he, searching the attorney’s pockets. “A brace of barkers,” handing a pair of pistols to Turpin; “a haddock, stuffed with nothing, I’m thinking; one quid, two coach-wheels, half a bull, three hogs, and a kick; a d—d dicky concern, captain.”
“Three hogs and a kick,” muttered Coates; “the knave says true enough.”
“Is there nothing else?” demanded Dick.
“Only an old snuffy fogle and a pewter sneezer.”
“No reader?1 Try his hoxter.”2
“Here’s a pit-man,3 captain.”
“Give it me. Ah! this will do,” cried Dick, examining the contents of the pocket-book. “This is a glorious windfall indeed; a bill of exchange for £500, payable on demand, eh, Mr. Coates? Quick! indorse it, sir. Here’s pen and ink. Rascal! if you attempt to tear the bill I’ll blow your brains out. Steady, sir; sign. Good!” added he, as Coates most reluctantly indorsed the bill. “Good! good! I’ll be off with this bill to London tonight, before you can stop it. No courier can beat Bess—ha,
ha! Eh! what’s this?” continued Dick, as unfolding another leaf of the pocket-book, he chanced upon a letter; “my lady Rookwood’s superscription! Excuse me, Mr. Coates, I must have a peep at her ladyship’s billet-doux. All’s safe with me—man of honour. I must detain your reader a moment longer.”
“You should take charge of yourself, then,” replied Coates, sulkily. “You appear to be my reader.”
“Bravo!” cried Turpin. “You may jest now with impunity, Mr. Coates. You have paid dear enough for your jokes; and when should a man be allowed to be pleasant, if not at his own expense?—ha, ha! What’s this?” exclaimed he, opening the letter. “A ring, as I’m awake! and from her ladyship’s own fair finger, I’ll be sworn, for it bears her cipher, ineffaceably impressed as your image upon her heart—eh, Coates? Egad! you are a lucky dog, after all, to receive such a favour from such a lady—ha, ha! Meantime, I’ll take care of it for you,” continued Dick, slipping the ring on his little finger.
Turpin, we have before remarked, had a turn for mimicry; and it was with an irresistible feeling of deferential awe creeping over him that Coates heard the contents of Lady Rookwood’s epistle delivered with an enunciation as peremptory and imperious as that of her ladyship’s self. The letter was hastily indited, in a clear, firm hand, and partook of its writer’s decision of character. Dick found no difficulty in deciphering it. Thus ran the missive:
“Assured of your devotion and secrecy, I commit my own honour, and that of my son, to your charge. Time will not permit me to see you, or I would not write. But I place myself entirely in your hands. You will not dare to betray my confidence. To the point:—A Major Mowbray has just arrived here with intelligence that the body of Susan Bradley (you will know to whom I allude) has been removed from our family vault by a Romish priest and his assistants. How it came there, or why it has been removed, I know not; it is not my present purpose to enquire. Suffice it, that it now lies in a vault beneath the ruins of Davenham Priory. My son, Sir Ranulph, who has lent a credulous ear to the artful tales of the impostor who calls this woman mother, is at present engaged in arming certain of the household, and of the tenantry, to seize upon and bring away this body, as resistance is apprehended from a horde of gipsies who infest the ruins. Now, mark me. THAT BODY MUST NOT BE FOUND! Be it your business to prevent its discovery. Take the fleetest horse you can procure; spare neither whip nor spur. Haste to the priory; procure by any means, and at any expense, the assistance of the gipsies. Find out the body; conceal it, destroy it—do what you will, so my son find it not. Fear not his resentment; I will bear you harmless of the consequences with him. You will act upon my responsibility. I pledge my honour for your safety. Use all despatch, and calculate upon due requital from