"Now, harkee, friend Mittachip," he said firmly, "I want those letters placed somewhere in absolute safety, where neither Lady Patience’s influence nor her chivalrous highwayman could possibly get at them. If you find a way and means of doing this for me, the two hundred guineas are yours. But if I have to manage this business myself, if I have to take the almost certain risk of being robbed of the letters, if I carry them about my own person, then you shall not get another shilling from me. Now you can think this matter over. I’ll across to speak to Squire West, and see if I can’t get that rascally highwayman captured and clapped into jail before the day is done." He took up his hat, and threw his coat over his arm. The situation was getting desperate. Then suddenly Master Mittachip had an idea. "I have it, Sir Humphrey," he cried excitedly. "I have it! A perfectly safe way of conveying those letters to my strong room at Wirksworth!" "Let’s have it, then." "I have bought some sheep of a farmer from over Aldwark way, for a client at Wirksworth. Here," he added, pulling a paper out of his pocket and handing it up to Sir Humphrey, "is the receipt and tally for them. Jock Miggs—Master Crabtree’s shepherd—is taking the sheep to the town to-day. He’ll most likely put up for the night on the Heath." "Well?" queried Sir Humphrey. "Well! Jock Miggs can neither read nor write." "Of course not." "Let us send _him_ to Wirksworth and tell him to leave the packet of letters at my house in charge of my clerk, Master Duffy, who will put it in the strong room until you want them. Duffy started for Wirksworth at daybreak this morning, and should be there by nightfall." "Pshaw, man! would you have me trust such valuable letters to a fool of a shepherd?" "Nay, Sir Humphrey, but that is our safeguard. Beau Brocade never touches the poor or the peasantry, and certainly would never suspect Jock Miggs of being in your Honour’s confidence, whilst the ordinary footpads would take no count of him. He is worth neither powder nor shot." "That’s true enough!" "I should tell Miggs that the papers are accounts for the sheep, and promise him a silver crown if he delivers them safely at my door. We can put the letters in a sealed packet; no one would ever suspect him." There was silence in the inn parlour for awhile. His Honour stood with legs apart, opposite the tiny leaded window, gazing out into vacancy, whilst Master Mittachip fixed his eyes meditatively on the broad back of his noble patron. What a deal depended on what was going on at the present moment in Sir Humphrey’s active brain. Suddenly his Honour turned on his heel. "Odd’s fish, Master Mittachip," he said, "but your plan is none so bad after all."