Under the light he peered out at the visitor, who stood tall and
stiff, with uniform overcoat buttoned to the chin, between the Ionic
pillars of the portico.
"Who's there?"
"Lieutenant Lapenotiere, of the _Pickle_ schooner--with dispatches."
"Dispatches?" echoed the night-porter. Out beyond the screen of
masonry that shut off the Board of Admiralty's forecourt from
Whitehall, one of the tired post-horses started blowing through its
nostrils on this foggy night.
"From Admiral Collingwood--Mediterranean Fleet off Cadiz--sixteen
days," answered the visitor curtly. "Is everyone abed?"
"Admiral Collingwood? Why Admiral Collingwood?" The night-porter
fell back a pace, opening the door a trifle wider. "Good God, sir!
You don't say as how--"
"You can fetch down a Secretary or someone, I hope?" said Lieutenant
Lapenotiere, quickly stepping past him into the long dim hall.
"My dispatches are of the first importance. I have posted up from
Falmouth without halt but for relays."
As the man closed the door, he heard his post-boy of the last relay
slap one of the horses encouragingly before heading home to stable.
The chaise wheels began to move on the cobbles.
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