He stood in the deserted porch, watching Jim strap his baggage to the saddle, occasionally giving a curt direction. Presently Mr. Chadber appeared with the stirrup-cup, which he drained and handed back with a word of thanks and a guinea at the bottom. Someone called lustily from within, and the landlord, bowing very low, murmured apologies and vanished. Jim cast a last glance at the saddle-girths, and, leaving the mare quietly standing in the road, came up to his master with gloves and whip. Carstares took them silently and fell to tapping his boot, his eyes thoughtfully on the man's face. "You will hire a coach, as usual," he said at length, "and take my baggage to--" (He paused, frowning)--"Lewes. You will engage a room at the White Hart and order dinner. I shall wear--apricot and--h'm!" "Blue, sir?" ventured Jim, with an idea of being helpful. His master's eyes crinkled at the corners. "You are a humorist, Salter. Apricot and cream. Cream? Yes, 'tis a pleasing thought--cream. That is all--Jenny!" The mare turned her head, whinnying as he came towards her. "Good lass!" He mounted lightly and patted her glossy neck. Then he leaned sideways in the saddle to speak again to Salter, who stood beside him, one hand on the bridle. "The cloak?" "Behind you, sir." "My wig?" "Yes, sir." "Pistols?" "Ready primed, sir." "Good. I shall be in Lewes in time for dinner--with luck." "Yes, sir. Ye--ye will have a care?" anxiously. "Have I not told you?" He straightened in the saddle, touched the mare with his heel, and bestowing a quick smile and a nod on his man, trotted easily away. CHAPTER II MY LORD AT THE WHITE HART "Sir Anthony Ferndale" sat before the dressing-table in his room at the White Hart, idly polishing his nails. A gorgeous silk dressing gown lay over the back of his chair, and, behind him, Jim was attending to his wig, at the same time hovering anxiously over the coat and waistcoat that were waiting to be donned. Carstares left off polishing his nails, yawned, and leaned back in his chair, a slim, graceful figure in cambric shirt and apricot satin breeches. He studied his cravat for some moments in the mirror, and lifted a hand to it. Salter held his breath. With extreme deliberation the hand moved a diamond and emerald pin the fraction of an inch to one side, and fell to his side again. Salter drew a relieved breath, which brought his master's eyes round to himself. "No trouble, Jim?" "None at all, sir." "Neither had I. 'Twas most surprisingly easy. The birds had no more fight in them than sparrows. Two men in a coach--one a bullying rascal of a merchant, the other his clerk. Gad! but I was sorry for that little man!" He paused, his hand on the rouge pot. Salter looked an inquiry.