We came to the end of the stage, and still the lost trace was not recovered. I looked at him anxiously when we stopped to change, but I knew by his yet graver face as he stood watching the ostlers that he had heard nothing. Almost in an instant afterwards, as I leaned back in my seat, he looked in, with his lighted lantern in his hand, an excited and quite different man.
“What is it?” said I, starting. “Is she here?”
“No, no. Don’t deceive yourself, my dear. Nobody’s here. But I’ve got it!”
The crystallized snow was in his eyelashes, in his hair, lying in ridges on his dress. He had to shake it from his face and get his breath before he spoke to me.
“Now, Miss Summerson,” said he, beating his finger on the apron, “don’t you be disappointed at what I’m a-going to do. You know me. I’m Inspector Bucket, and you can trust me. We’ve come a long way; never mind. Four horses out there for the next stage up! Quick!”
There was a commotion in the yard, and a man came running out of the stables to know if he meant up or down.
“Up, I tell you! Up! Ain’t it English? Up!”
“Up?” said I, astonished. “To London! Are we going back?”
“Miss Summerson,” he answered, “back. Straight back as a die. You know me. Don’t be afraid. I’ll follow the other, by G⸺”
“The other?” I repeated. “Who?”