The gratified Pedro interrupted with an emphatic: ‘Ah no, my Captain, there is you. There were moments when the good Greyhound slid before the wind and first the French and then the English battleships let drive at her that Pedro thought, “What will the Captain do now? Will he tack here or there? Hold his fire or answer them?” Ah yes — your Pedro needed you. But your luck held with me — and home we got.’
‘Would that I could have been with you, Pedro,’ said Doctor Syn. ‘The call of the sea remains as strong as ever. You did well, my friend. Was the cargo — troublesome? I got your message.’
‘Ah — the bookmarks. ’Tis good, our system of the post at the bookshop. I would I wrote such good letters as our young boy Jacques. I speak — he write, and he deliver it.’ Thumping himself on the chest, he spat out in disgust: ‘Bah — Pedro! Unlettered, ignorant Spanish pig. Bah!’
‘You have a good deal of courage which makes up for your lack of letters, my good little Pedro.’
‘Just as my weather ear makes up for me lack of inches, eh?’ said Mr. Mipps meaningly. Then, seeing that the others had not understood, except, of course, the Vicar, Mipps explained: ‘Another of the Captain’s little jokes. Gentleman James is lucky. Can’t be called a dwarf. Though I wouldn’t mind so much being a little man and someone was to put me in a barrel — full one, mind you, not empty. And that reminds me, talkin’ of barrels. Had a message from Vulture. Them coopered Dragoons got to Sandgate lovely. Says he popped them other two you didn’t want to ride over the Marsh with into barrels as well. Oh, and he found two more lurkin’ about he didn’t like, to which he did ditto, just to make up the nice round half-dozen for Mr. Hyde. Left ’em in a row on the doorstep. I’d like to give my weather eye a treat when he opens ’em. You’re askin for trouble with Mr. Hyde. He’ll be Mr. Seek now.’
At which they laughed heartily. ‘Ah,’ cried Pedro. ‘I do not think his cargo please him as mine please me. At least, the half of it. That miss — a brave one. Rough or smooth — all same to her. When all was well and as you told me, Captain, I let them out between the decks. The tall one — she clapped me on the back and say, “Good Pedro. Why did you not let me out before? I heard the guns, I could have helped you man them.” But the little one’ — the thought made Pedro hold up his hands and flap them in disgust. ‘She scream at me as though it were my fault. She say, “You let me out. You stop the boat and let me off.” Had it not been for orders, Pedro might well have say, “Go then, miss. The water, it is deep and wet, but if you wish, ’op it.” Alles. Pouf!’ The noise conveyed what he meant. That he was extremely glad to be rid of her.
Doctor Syn looked at his fob watch, and said it was some ten minutes short of midnight and time to be saddling up.
‘You will ride with Mipps to the beach, Pedro,’ he said, ‘and the luggers will take you off during the run, and put you aboard the Greyhound. She’s off Dungeness, is she not? Mipps, saddle Gehenna now, while I have word with James here.’
Mipps nodded, and with an ‘Aye-aye, sir,’ took Pedro by the arm and the two little men went off together, their back views very similar.
‘Well, Jimmie, what news?’ asked Doctor Syn as they went to the fire and sat down in the chimney-seat.
‘If it’s personal news you mean, then James ain’t got much to tell you, for them bloody red-robins — beg pardon, Vicar — them nice Bow Street Runners, is remarkably quiet. Expectin’ them to jump any time now, so if you don’t hear from me you’ll know I’m taking my vacation at Slippery’s this time. The false run went off according to plan. “British Grenadiers”, eh? I made the Dragoons dance to a different tune. “Over the Border Away, Away.” I took ’em across the Kent Ditch and got ’em lost in Sussex. “Well and truly lost”, you said, and well and truly lost they are. We turned the signposts, so if they do happen to get out they’ll go trotting back into Sussex again.’
The two men laughed heartily at this. Then Jimmie Bone slapped hand to knee and exclaimed: ‘Zounds — talking of finding and losing — no news I said, and here I am with some in my pocket.’ And he drew out the wallet he had taken in Quarry Hill from Captain Foulkes.
‘There’s something here that I think you ought to have,’ he said. ‘You see, I’ve had a good deal of experience with gentlemen’s wallets, and this one sort of puzzled me. “Here,” says I, “is a good one. Hand made. Beautiful stitching. Gold initial and made of Russian leather.” There it was in my hand, empty — although it didn’t feel empty. A nice exciting crackling of paper. “James,” I said, “you may have stumbled on this gentleman’s emergency note,” so I turns it over and has a good look, and there at the top was a different stitching. So, Gentleman James being curious, I ripped out the stitching and inside here was this.” He drew from behind the outer leather a thin folded paper, covered with writing, which he handed over to Doctor Syn.
‘You can read the language — I can’t. But I can read a name, even in French. And that’s why I thought you’d better have it.’
Doctor Syn turned to the name, and gave a long low whistle of astonishment. Then quickly reading the letter through he looked up at the highwayman, and his voice was grave. ‘’Tis good that you have such a sensitive touch, Jimmie. Here’s a stupendous piece of news indeed, though for a time I’ve had an inkling that something was afoot. I’ll deal with it, James. As you have gathered, it is a letter written by none other than Robespierre himself to a Monsieur Barsard. For the present I must urge you to keep even that knowledge to yourself. All I can tell you other than this is that he proposes —‘
Upon that instant the nearby hooting of an owl was heard, and the door opened. Doctor Syn quickly replaced the letter in the wallet, which he put in his pocket, as a figure entered the room. Masked and hooded, it was terrible to behold. One might have expected its voice to be sepulchral. Instead came, surprisingly enough, the plaintive, muffled voice of Mr. Mipps. ‘Oh, me mask. Don’t fit,’ he complained. ‘Give Pedro mine. This didn’t fit him neither, but it’ll give me cruel headache, sure as coffin nails. Owls is on. ’Ear ’em? Ain’t you ready? ’Orses are. Why, blow me down! Ain’t you chose your present yet? Ain’t you been lingy? Better be quiddy.’
Mr. Bone made a rush for the table and quickly sorted out some half a dozen trinkets, and turning, begged Doctor Syn to give him his advice, telling him that he meant to make a personal apology to Miss Gordon with one of them, and which did he think suitable?
With a nod of approval for his gentlemanly thought, Doctor Syn began to make his choice from the articles when Mr. Mipps, who was at the table inspecting some of the others, cried, ‘Knock me up solid — ’ere’s the very thing and you’ve been and gone and missed it!’ He held out for them to see a brooch, a dog’s head carved out of crystal, painted, and set in gold looking remarkably life-like.
‘Why, yes,’ cried Doctor Syn, ‘’tis indeed the very thing. For though it is not a poodle, it is at least a white dog and bears a faint resemblance to Mister Pitt.’
‘Poodle,’ repeated Mipps. ‘Is that what you calls ’em? A old-fangled name for a new-fangled dog. Looks more like one of them clipped yew hedges to me.’
Mr. Bone, admitting he had been dense, besought Doctor Syn to give it to her when convenient, to which Doctor Syn replied he would do so the very first thing in the morning, with her own as well. Then, as Jimmie Bone had already been out once that night and ridden hard, he bade him go to rest, adding that he would be informed of the next run, which probably, he said, would not be for a week.
The warning cries of the owl becme more insistent as Doctor Syn leapt into the dry dyke and through the secret door.
Three minutes later three wild mounted figures dashed from the stable, topped the dyke and galloped seawards, whence came the twinkle of innumerable lights as the ‘flashers’ sent their message round the Marsh.