houses behind us. After a while I recognized the familiar way to Saint Albans. At Barnet fresh horses were ready for us, and we changed and went on. It was very cold indeed, and the open country was white with snow, though none was falling then.
“An old acquaintance of yours, this road, Miss Summerson,” said Mr. Bucket cheerfully.
“Yes,” I returned. “Have you gathered any intelligence?”
“None that can be quite depended on as yet,” he answered, “but it’s early times as yet.”
He had gone into every late or early public-house where there was a light (they were not a few at that time, the road being then much frequented by drovers) and had got down to talk to the turnpike-keepers. I had heard him ordering drink, and chinking money, and making himself agreeable and merry everywhere; but whenever he took his seat upon the box again, his face resumed its watchful steady look, and he always said to the driver in the same business tone, “Get on, my lad!”
With all these stoppages, it was between five and six o’clock and we were yet a few miles short of Saint Albans when he came out of one of these houses and handed me in a cup of tea.
“Drink it, Miss Summerson, it’ll do you good. You’re beginning to get more yourself now, ain’t you?”
I thanked him and said I hoped so.
“You was what you may call stunned at first,” he returned; “and Lord, no wonder! Don’t speak loud, my dear. It’s all right. She’s on ahead.”
I don’t know what joyful exclamation I made or was going to make, but he put up his finger and I stopped myself.