John Gore led his horse aside among the oak-trees, and proceeded to examine the package that he had taken from Captain Grylls. On the paper was roughly scrawled “My lord,” and, breaking the seal and the worsted, he found nothing more astonishing than a mass of wool pressed tightly together. But as he unravelled the stuff he came upon something hard that glistened—a gold ring set with a seal and bound round with a piece of red silk. The seal was an intaglio cut in sardonyx—a gorgon’s head with a hand holding a firebrand above it. John Gore knew it to be his father’s signet-ring, and this circle of gold, with its seal, cast out all doubt as to my lord’s authority in the matter. That ring might carry his father’s orders to and fro without his compromising himself by putting pen to paper. John Gore wondered what the piece of red silk meant. The message it carried might have some sinister meaning, for the mystery and the secrecy of it all had drawn many dark thoughts into his mind. How far would Captain Grylls ride before discovering the loss of the packet? Would he return, or ride on ahead for London? Above all, what message had he carried to Thorn, and had his coming foreshadowed some peril for Barbara? John Gore had thought of holding Captain Grylls at the pistol-point and of forcing a confession from him, but he had realized the rashness of such a measure; nor could he have proved that the rogue was telling him the truth. Captain Grylls might be a mere despatch-rider knowing nothing of the news he carried. It would be wiser to let him go his way without his discovering who was meddling in the plot. John Gore put the ring upon his finger, mounted his horse, and made for the main road. He needed a place where he could lie quiet, and people whom he could trust, and Furze Farm was such a place. He made for it that morning, guided by the shouts of a man whom he found ploughing in a field, and before noon he rode down the grass track that Mr. Pepys had followed, and saw the red farm-house, the dark thatch, the yellow stacks, and the golden beeches against a breezy sky. As he came riding by Chris Jennifer’s orchard he saw Mrs. Winnie hanging linen out to dry, while white-polled Will paddled round the pond, and surreptitiously threw sticks at the white ducks thereon. Mrs. Winnie’s blue petticoat was blowing merrily, and she had a clothes-peg in her mouth when John Gore called to her over the hedge. She dropped the peg suddenly, while the wind blew an apron across her face. “Good-morning, Mrs. Jennifer.” “Drat the clothes! Who be it this time of the morning? And me with a short petticoat on!” She flicked the apron aside, settled her skirts, and came round under a great apple-tree, with a few pullets running at her heels. “Good-morning, Mrs. Jennifer.” “Sakes alive! is it you, sir?” “Yes, come to ask you a favor. You had better keep an eye on that boy of yours. He still seems in love with the pond.”