As he ended, the woman-servant came in with the materials for breakfast; and he and the old man sat down together, avoiding, as if by mutual consent, any reference to the subject of their previous conversation. Henry spoke at large, however, with regard to his pocket-book, and explained to Mr. Graves as well as he could, without describing the contents, how important it was for him to recover it. "I could wish," he added, "though I don't know if it be possible, that it should be restored to me without being opened." "I would not look into the inside for the world," replied the old man; "but if it be still within ten miles of this place, I think I will have it before night; for immediately after breakfast I will mount my horse, and I will get all my own men and my son's together, and will sweep the whole country between this and Frimley, without leaving a hole unsearched in which any one of the villains could harbour. But where are you going to now? Cannot you stay and help us?" "I am afraid not," replied Henry: "I have promised to be in London to-night; but I will write down my address, and hope to hear from you." "Don't write; tell me," said the farmer: "that is as good as writing. I never forget: since that terrible day, it seems as if everything that happens to me is dug into my memory as if with a penknife. Like names that boys carve on the bark of trees, the marks grow larger and stronger as time passes. These things touch different men in different ways. I have heard of some men who have quite lost their memory under misfortunes--with me the effect has been the reverse. What is the address?" When Henry told him, he murmured-- "Colonel Middleton!--that is not the name." "I do not believe it is," replied Henry; "I do not believe it is my own name; but that will be all explained to you hereafter. And now, is it possible to get a chaise to Hartford Bridge? I left my portmanteau there last night, and must go back for it." "You can go in my gig," said the old man: "tell the people at the 'White Lion' to send it back. I will order it directly; then go you on your way while I go on mine--and success attend us both!" CHAPTER XIX. Maria Monkton was dressing for dinner when she heard a loud double knock at the door of her aunt's house. It wanted fully half-an-hour of the time at which any guest but a lover could be reasonably expected; and while she herself hurried her toilet, she bade the maid look out and see who was the visiter. "It is only your uncle, ma'am," said the abigail; "it is his cab and servant." "Is Lady Fleetwood dressed?" demanded Maria, rather anxiously. "Oh, dear, yes, ma'am! She has been down these ten minutes," replied the maid, setting hard to work again upon her lady's hair.