"I will swear to the truth o’ it in any court of law," protested the attorney with somewhat less assurance. "The fifth man was Beau Brocade. I heard the others address him so, while I was lying gagged and bound." "Aye! you would _lie_ anywhere," commented his Honour, "gagged and bound or not." "From your observation, Sir Humphrey, I gather that you somewhat ... er ... doubt my story!" murmured Master Mittachip in a quavering voice. "Doubt it, man? ... doubt it?" laughed his Honour, holding his sides, "nay! how can I doubt it? I saw it all..." "You, Sir Humphrey?" "I was there, man, on the Heath. I saw it all ... your vigorous defence, your noble valour, your ... your..." Master Mittachip’s sallow face had assumed a parchment-like hue. He passed his dry tongue over his parched lips, great drops of moisture appeared beneath his wig. That his fears were not unfounded was presently proved by Sir Humphrey’s sudden change of manner. The hilarious laugh died down in his Honour’s throat, an ugly frown gathered above his deep-set eyes, and with a violent curse he brought his heavy fist down crashing upon the table. "And now, you lying, lumbering poltroon, where’s my money?" "B ... b ... but, Sir Humphrey..." stammered the attorney, now pallid with terror. "There’s no ’but’ about it. You collected some rents for me, thirty guineas in all, that money must lie to my account in the bank at Wirksworth to-morrow, or by G—— I’ll have you clapped in jail like the thief that you are." "B ... b ... but, your Honour..." "Silence! I’ve said my last word. If that money is not in the bank by noon to-morrow, I’ll denounce you to the Wirksworth magistrate as a fraudulent agent. Now hold your tongue about that. I’ve said my last word. The rest is your affair, not mine. I’ve more important matters to think on." Master Mittachip, half dead with fear, dared not offer further argument or pleading. He knew his employer well enough to realise that his honour meant every word he said, and that he himself had nothing more to hope for in the matter of the money. The deficiency extracted from him by that rascal Beau Brocade would have to be made good somehow, and Master Mittachip bethought him ruefully of his own savings, made up of sundry little commissions extorted from his Honour’s tenants. No wonder the attorney felt none too kindly disposed towards the highwayman. He watched Sir Humphrey’s face as a hungry dog does his master’s, and noted with growing satisfaction that his Honour’s anger was cooling down gradually, and giving place to harder and more cruel determination. As he watched, the look of terror died out of his bony, sallow face, and his pale, watery eyes began to twinkle with keen and vengeful malice. CHAPTER XXI MASTER MITTACHIP’S IDEA