Mistress Pottage, sad-eyed, melancholy, and for ever sighing, had been patiently waiting to receive Sir Humphrey Challoner’s orders. She had understood from his man that his Honour meant to spend the night, and she stood anxiously in the passage, wondering if he would consider her best bedroom good enough, or condescend to eat the meals she would have to cook for him. It was really quite fortunate that Lady Patience had gone, leaving the smaller parlour, which was Mistress Pottage’s own private sanctum, ready for the use of his Honour. Sir Humphrey’s mind, however, was far too busy with thoughts and plans to dwell on the melancholy landlady and her meagre fare, but he was glad of the private room, and was gracious enough to express himself quite satisfied with the prospect of the best bedroom. Some ten minutes after his brief interview with Lady Patience he was closeted in the same little dingy room where she had been spending such weary hours. With the healthy appetite of a burly English squire, he was consuming large slabs of meat and innumerable tankards of small ale, whilst opposite to him, poised on the extreme edge of a very hard oak chair, his watery, colourless eyes fixed upon his employer, sat Master Mittachip, attorney-at-law and man of business to sundry of the quality who owned property on or about the Moor. Master Mittachip’s voice was thin, he was thin, his coat looked thin: there was in fact a general air of attenuation about the man’s whole personality. Just now he was fixing a pair of very pale, but very shrewd eyes upon the heavy, somewhat coarse person of his distinguished patron. "Her ladyship passed me quite close," he explained, speaking in a low, somewhat apologetic voice. "I was standing in the door of—er—the parlour, and she graciously nodded to me as she passed." "Yes! yes! get on, man," quoth Sir Humphrey, impatiently. "The door was open, your Honour," continued Master Mittachip in a weak voice, "there was a draught; her ladyship’s cloak flew open." He paused a moment, noting with evident satisfaction the increasing interest in Sir Humphrey’s face. "Beneath her cloak," he continued, speaking very slowly, like an actor measuring his effects, "beneath her cloak her ladyship was holding a bundle of letters, tightly clutched in her hand." "Letters, eh?" commented Sir Humphrey, eagerly. "A bundle of them, your Honour. One of them had a large seal attached to it. I might almost have seen the device: it was that of..." "Charles Edward Stuart, the Pretender?" "Well! I could not say for certain, your Honour," murmured Master Mittachip, humbly. There was silence for a few moments. Sir Humphrey Challoner had produced a silver tooth-pick, and was using it as an adjunct to deep meditation. Master Mittachip was contemplating the floor with rapt attention. "Harkee, Master Mittachip," said Sir Humphrey at last. "Lady Patience is taking those letters to London."