He wore the buff and black, whereas the other
had worn the blue and white. Yet he stepped forward confidently, and
with something of a smile.
"Lieutenant Lapenotiere?" he asked, reaching back and holding up his
paper to the lamp to make sure of the syllables.
"That is my name," said the amazed Lieutenant.
"I was ordered here--five-forty-five--to drive you down to Merton."
"To Merton?" echoed Lieutenant Lapenotiere, his hand going to his
pocket. The post-boy's smile, or so much as could be seen of it by
the edge of the lamp, grew more knowing.
"I ask no questions, sir."
"But--but who ordered you?"
The post-boy did not observe, or disregarded, his bewilderment.
"A Briton's a Briton, sir, I hope? I ask no questions, knowing my
place. . . . But if so be as you were to tell me there's been a great
victory--" He paused on this.
"Well, my man, you're right so far, and no harm in telling you."
"Aye," chirruped the post-boy. "When the maid called me up with the
order, and said as how _he_ and no other had called with it--"
"He?"
The fellow nodded.
"She knew him at once, from his portraits. Who wouldn't? With his
right sleeve pinned across so.
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