Jim cast a last glance at the saddle-girths, and, leaving the mare quietly standing in the road, came up to his master with gloves and whip.
Carstares took them silently and fell to tapping his boot, his eyes thoughtfully on the man’s face.
“You will hire a coach, as usual,” he said at length, “and take my baggage to———” (He paused, frowning)—“Lewes. You will engage a room at the White Hart and order dinner. I shall wear—apricot and—h’m!”
“Blue, sir?” ventured Jim, with an idea of being helpful.
His master’s eyes crinkled at the corners.
“You are a humorist, Salter. Apricot and cream. Cream? Yes, ’tis a pleasing thought—cream. That is all—Jenny!”
The mare turned her head, whinnying as he came towards her.
“Good lass!” He mounted lightly and patted her glossy neck. Then he leaned sideways in the saddle to speak again to Salter, who stood beside him, one hand on the bridle.
“The cloak?”
“Behind you, sir.”
“My wig?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pistols?”
“Ready primed, sir.”
“Good. I shall be in Lewes in time for dinner—with luck.”
“Yes, sir. Ye—ye will have a care?” anxiously.
“Have I not told you?” He straightened in the saddle, touched the mare with his heel, and bestowing a quick smile and a nod on his man, trotted easily away.
