“That’s for your people,” said the guard. “Now, look alive in there, will you. Damn that ’ere bag, it warn’t ready night afore last; this won’t do, you know!”
“Anything new up in town, Ben?” asked the gamekeeper, drawing back to the window-shutters, the better to admire the horses.
“No, nothing that I knows on,” replied the man, pulling on his gloves. “Corn’s up a little. I heerd talk of a murder, too, down Spitalfields way, but I don’t reckon much upon it.”
“Oh, that’s quite true,” said a gentleman inside, who was looking out of the window. “And a dreadful murder it was.”
“Was it, sir?” rejoined the guard, touching his hat. “Man or woman, pray, sir?”
“A woman,” replied the gentleman. “It is supposed—”
“Now, Ben,” replied the coachman impatiently.
“Damn that ’ere bag,” said the guard; “are you gone to sleep in there?”
“Coming!” cried the office keeper, running out.
“Coming,” growled the guard. “Ah, and so’s the young ’ooman of property that’s going to take a fancy to me, but I don’t know when. Here, give hold. All ri—ight!”
The horn sounded a few cheerful notes, and the coach was gone.
Sikes remained standing in the street, apparently unmoved by what he had just heard, and agitated by no stronger feeling than a doubt where to go. At length he went back again, and took the road which leads from Hatfield to St. Albans.