“Any time after noon. Can’t say precisely.”

Mr Hawkins pulled down his mouth. “Dang me if I like it, then. I like to work when the tattler’s up, see?”

“If there’s one thing we don’t want it’s any tattlers,” replied the Viscount firmly.

“Lord love your honour, ain’t you ever heard on the moon?”

“The moon! By the time that’s up our man will be safe in this house. This is daylight or nothing.”

Mr Hawkins sighed. “Just as you say, your honour. And you wants a set of toges and snaps? Bring your own nags?”

“Own horses, own pistols,” agreed the Viscount.

“You’ll have to mount me, then, Pelham,” put in Captain Heron.

“Mount you with pleasure, my dear fellow.”

“Own pops?” said Mr Hawkins. “Us bridle culls don’t use them little pops all over wedge, your honour.”

The Viscount glanced down at his pistol. “What’s wrong with it? Devilish good pistol. Gave a hundred guineas for the pair.”

Mr Hawkins pointed a grimy finger at the silver mountings. “All that wedge. That’s what’s wrong with it.”

“Oh, very well,” said the Viscount. “But I like my own pistols, you know. Now where do we get these coats and mufflers?”

“You know the Half-Way House?” said Mr Hawkins. “That’s where I’ll be. There’s a flash ken thereabouts, where I keeps my nag. I’ll be off there now, and when you comes, why dang me if I don’t have the toges and tyes ready for you!”

“And how do I know you will be there?” said the Viscount.

“Because I wants twenty guineas,” replied Mr Hawkins logically. “And because I wants to get my hands on that boman prig. That’s how.”

Chapter Twenty

An hour later three gentlemen might have been observed riding soberly out to Knightsbridge. Captain Heron, bestriding a raking chestnut from the Viscount’s stables, had changed his scarlet regimentals and his powdered wig for a plain suit of buff, and a brown tie-wig. He had found time, before joining the Viscount at his lodging, to call in Grosvenor Square again, where he had found Horatia in a fever of anxiety. When she learned of the new development in the affair, she first expressed herself as extremely dissatisfied that no one had killed the wretched Mr Drelincourt, and it was some few minutes before Captain Heron could induce her to speak of anything but that gentleman’s manifold iniquities. When her indignation had abated somewhat he laid the Viscount’s plan before her. This met with her instant approval. It was the cleverest notion she had ever heard of, and of course it could not fail.

Captain Heron warned her to keep her own counsel, and went off to Pall Mall. He had not much expectation of finding Mr Hawkins either at the Half-Way House or anywhere else, but it was obviously no use saying so to the optimistic Viscount. By this time his brother-in-law was in fine fettle, so that whether Mr Hawkins kept his appointment or not, it seemed probable that the plan would be carried out.

About a quarter of a mile before the Half-Way House was reached, a solitary rider, walking his horse, came into view. As they drew closer he looked over his shoulder, and Captain Heron was forced to admit that he had misjudged their new acquaintance.

Mr Hawkins greeted him jovially. “Dang me if you wasn’t a-speaking the truth!” he exclaimed. His eyes ran over the Viscount’s mare approvingly. “That’s a nice bit of horse-flesh, that is,” he nodded. “But tricksy—tricksy, I’ll lay my life. You come along o’ me to the boozing ken I telled you of.”

“Got those coats?” asked the Viscount.

“Ay, all’s bowman, your honour.”

The ale-house which Mr Hawkins had made his head-quarters lay some little distance off the main road. It was an unsavoury haunt, and from the look of the company in the tap-room seemed to be frequented largely by ruffians of Mr Hawkins’s calling. As a preliminary to the adventure the Viscount called for four bumpers of brandy, for which he paid with a guinea tossed on to the counter.

“Don’t throw guineas about, you young fool!” said Captain Heron in a low voice. “You’ll have your pocket picked if you’re not more careful.”

“Ay, the Capting’s in the right of it,” said Mr Hawkins, overhearing. “I’m a bridle cull, I am—never went on the dub-lay yet, no, and never will, but there’s a couple of files got their winkers on you. We gets all sorts here—locks, files, common prigs, and foot-scamperers. Now, my bullies, drain your clanks! I got your toges up the dancers.”

Sir Roland plucked at the Captain’s sleeve. “You know, Heron,” he whispered confidentially, “this brandy—not at all the thing’. Hope it don’t get into poor Pel’s head—very wild in his cups—oh, very wild! Must keep him away from any dancers.”

“I don’t think he meant “dancers”,” soothed Captain Heron. “I fancy that’s a cant word.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it,” said Sir Roland, relieved. “It’s a pity he don’t speak English. Don’t follow him at all, you know.”

Mr Hawkins’s dancers proved to be a flight of rickety stairs, up which he led them to a malodorous bedroom. Sir Roland recoiled on the threshold, raising his scented handkerchief to his nose. “Pel—no, really Pel!” he said faintly.

“Smells a bit of onions,” remarked the Viscount. He picked up a battered tricorne from a chair, and casting aside his rakish chapeau a la Valaque, clapped it over his fair, unpowdered locks. He surveyed the effect in the cracked mirror, and chuckled. “How d’you like it, Pom?”

Sir Roland shook his head. “It ain’t a hat, Pel. You couldn’t call it a hat.”

Mr Hawkins gave a guffaw. “It’s a rare shap, that one. Better nor yours.”

He handed the Viscount a muffler, and showed him how to tie it to conceal every vestige of his lace cravat. The Viscount’s shining top-boots made him purse his lips. “You could see your face in them stampers,” he said. “Hows’ever, it can’t be helped.” He watched Sir Roland struggle into a large triple-caped overcoat, and handed him a hat more battered than the Viscount’s. He eyed Sir Roland’s elegant gauntlets disparagingly. “Properly speaking, you don’t want no famstrings,” he said. “But I dunno. Maybe you’d best keep them white dabblers o’ yours covered. Now, you gen’lemen, stow these here masks away till I gives the word to put ’em on. Not till we gets to the Heath that won’t be.”

Captain Heron pulled his muffler tight and jammed his beaver well over his eyes. “Well, at all events, Pelham, I defy my own wife to recognize me in these clothes,” he remarked. “I could only wish that the coat were not so tight round the chest. Are we ready?”

Mr Hawkins was pulling a wooden case from under the bed. This he opened, and displayed three horse pistols. “I got two myself, but I couldn’t come by no more,” he said.

The Viscount lifted one of these weapons, and grimaced. “Clumsy. You can have it, Pom. I brought my own.”

“Not them little pops all over wedge?” asked Mr Hawkins, frowning.

“Lord, no! Horse pistols like your own. You’d best leave the shooting to me, Pom. No knowing what will happen if you let that barker off.”

“That gun,” said Mr Hawkins, offended, “belonged to Gentleman Joe, him as went to the Nubbing Cheat a twelve-month back. Ah, and a rare buzz he was!”

“Fellow who robbed the French Mail about a year ago?” inquired the Viscount. “Hanged him, didn’t they?”

“That’s what I said,” replied Mr Hawkins.

“Well, I don’t care for his taste in pistols,” said the Viscount, handing the weapon over to Sir Roland. “Let’s be going.”

They trooped down the wooden stairs again, and out into the yard, where a couple of seedy-looking men were walking the horses up and down. These Mr Hawkins sent about their business. The Viscount tossed them a couple of silver pieces, and went to see that his pistols were still safe in the saddle holsters. Mr Hawkins told him he need not be anxious. “Couple o’ my own lads, they are,” he said, hoisting himself on to the back of a big brown gelding.

The Viscount swung lightly into the saddle, glancing over the brown horse’s points. “Where did you steal that nag?” he asked.

Mr Hawkins grinned, and laid a finger to the side of his nose.

Sir Roland, whose horse, apparently having as poor an opinion of the hostelry as his master, was sidling and fidgeting in a fret to be off, ranged alongside the Viscount and said: “Pel, we can’t ride down the high road in these clothes! Damme, I won’t do it!”

“High road?” said Mr Hawkins. “Lord love you, it ain’t high roads for us, my bully! You follow me.”

The way Mr Hawkins chose was unknown to his companions, and seemed very tortuous. He skirted every village, took a wide detour round Hounslow and led them eventually on to the Heath shortly after one. Ten minutes’ canter brought the main Bath Road into sight.

“You want to lie up where no one won’t see you,” advised Mr Hawkins. “There’s a bit of a hill I knows of, with some bushes atop. Know the look of our man’s rabler?”

“Do I know the look of his what?” said the Viscount.

“His rabler—his coach is what I mean!”

“Well, I do wish you’d say what you mean,” said the Viscount severely. “He’s driving a chaise-and-four, that’s all I know.”

“Don’t you know his horses?” asked Captain Heron.

“I know the pair he drives in his curricle, but that don’t help us. We’ll stop the first chaise we see, and if it ain’t him, we’ll stop the next.”

“That’s it,” agreed Sir Roland, dubiously eyeing his mask. “Daresay we’ll need some practice. Look here, Pel, I don’t at all like this mask. There’s too much of it.”

“For my part,” said Captain Heron with an irrepressible laugh, “I’m thanking God for mine!”