Well! and what then? Surely the Squire could have no object in wishing those letters to be suppressed: he could but desire that Philip’s innocence _should_ be proved. Thus reason and instinct fought their battle in her brain as the heavy coach went lumbering along the muddy road to the little wayside inn, which stood midway between the cross-roads and the village of Aldwark. Here her man Timothy made arrangements for the resting and feeding of himself, the horses and Thomas, the driver, whilst Lady Patience asked for a private room wherein she and her maid, Betty, could get something to eat and perhaps an hour’s sleep before re-starting on their way. The small bar-parlour at the Moorhen was full to overflowing when her ladyship’s coach drove up. Already there had been a general air of excitement there throughout the day, for the Corporal in his red coat, followed by his little squad, had halted at the inn, and there once more read aloud the Proclamation of His Majesty’s Parliament. The soldiers had stayed half an hour or so, consuming large quantities of ale the while, then they had marched up to the village, read the Proclamation out on the green, and finally tramped along the bridle-path back to Brassington. And now here was the quality putting up at the Moorhen. A most unheard-of, unexpected event. Mistress Pottage, the sad-faced, weary-eyed landlady, had never known such a thing to happen before, although she had been mistress of the Moorhen for nigh on twenty years. Usually the quality from Stretton Hall or from Hartington, or even Lady Rounce from the Pike, preferred to drive a long way round to get to Derby, sooner than trust to the lonely Heath, with its roads almost impassable four days out of five. Master Mittachip, attorney-at-law, who had ridden over from Wirksworth with his clerk, Master Duffy, recognised her ladyship as she stepped out of her coach. "Sir Humphrey will be astonished," he whispered to Master Duffy, as he rubbed his ill-shaven chin with his long bony fingers. "He! he! he!" echoed the clerk, submissively. Master Mittachip, who transacted business for the Squire of Hartington, and also for old Lady Rounce and Squire West, knew the exact shade of deference due to so great a lady as Lady Patience Gascoyne. He stood at the door of the parlour and had the honour of bowing to her as she followed Mistress Pottage quickly along the passage to the inner room beyond, her long cloak flying out behind her, owing to the draught caused by the open doors. Alone in the small, dingy room, Patience almost fell upon the sofa in a stupor of intense fatigue. When Mistress Pottage brought the meagre, ill-cooked food, she felt at first quite unable to eat. She lay back against the hard pillows with eyes closed, and hands tightly clutching that bundle of precious letters. Betty tried to make her comfortable. She took off her mistress’s shoes and stockings and began rubbing the cold, numb feet between her warm hands.