“Ah, ha!” cried Helstone. “I’ve not been quite idle while you were busy. I’ve been helping you a little: I flatter myself, not injudiciously. I thought it better not to lose time; so, while you were parleying with that down-looking gentleman, Farren, I think his name is, I opened this back window, shouted to Murgatroyd, who was in the stable, to bring Mr. Sykes’s gig round; then I smuggled Sugden and brother Moses—wooden leg and all—through the aperture, and saw them mount the gig (always with our good friend Sykes’s permission, of course). Sugden took the reins—he drives like Jehu, and in another quarter of an hour, Barraclough will be safe in Stilbro’ jail.”
“Very good: thank you,” said Moore, “and good-morning, gentlemen,” he added, and so politely conducted them to the door and saw them clear of his premises.
He was a taciturn, serious man the rest of the day: he did not even bandy a repartee with Joe Scott; who, for his part, said to his master only just what was absolutely necessary to the progress of business, but looked at him a good deal out of the corners of his eyes, frequently came to poke the counting-house fire for him, and once, as he was locking up for the day (the mill was then working short-time, owing to the slackness of trade), observed that it was a grand evening, and he “could wish
