‘Sakes!’ cried the smith, ‘whose is that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sir George answered grimly, and shot a glance of suspicion at Mr. Dunborough, who was leaning against the fore-wheel.

But that gentleman shrugged his shoulders.  ‘You need not look at me,’ he said.  ‘It is not my box; I have mine here.’

‘Whose is it?’

Mr. Dunborough raised his eyebrows and did not answer.

‘Do you know?’ Sir George persisted fiercely.

‘No, I don’t.  I know no more about it than you do.’

‘Maybe the lady took snuff?’ the smith said cautiously.

Many ladies did, but not this one; and Sir George sniffed his contempt.  He turned the box over and over in his hand.  It was a plain, black box, of smooth enamel, about two inches long.

‘I believe I have seen one like it,’ said Mr. Dunborough, yawning.  ’But I’m hanged if I can tell where.’

‘Has your honour looked inside?’ the smith asked.  ’Maybe there is a note in it.’

Sir George cut him short with an exclamation, and held the box up to the light.  ‘There is something scratched on it,’ he said.

There was.  When he held the box close to the lanthorn, words rudely scratched on the enamel, as if with the point of a pin, became visible; visible, but not immediately legible, so scratchy were the letters and imperfectly formed the strokes.  It was not until the fourth or fifth time of reading that Sir George made out the following scrawl: 

‘Take to Fishwick, Castle, Marlboro’.  Help!  Julia.’

Sir George swore.  The box, with its pitiful, scarce articulate cry, brought the girl’s helpless position, her distress, her terror, more clearly to his mind than all that had gone before.  Nor to his mind only, but to his heart; he scarcely asked himself why the appeal was made to another, or whence came this box—­which was plainly a man’s, and still had snuff in it—­or even whither she had been so completely spirited away that there remained of her no more than this, and the black kerchief, and about the carriage a fragrance of her—­perceptible only by a lover’s senses.  A whirl of pity and rage—­pity for her, rage against her captors—­swept such questions from his mind.  He was shaken by gusty impulses, now to strike Mr. Dunborough across his smirking face, now to give some frenzied order, now to do some foolish act that must expose him to disgrace.  He had much ado not to break into hysterical weeping, or into a torrent of frantic oaths.  The exertions of the night, following on a day spent in the saddle, the tortures of fear and suspense, this last disappointment, the shock of his fall—­had all told on him; and it was well that at this crisis Mr. Fishwick was at his elbow.

For the lawyer saw his face and read it aright, and interposing suggested an adjournment to the inn; adding that while they talked the matter over and refreshed themselves, a messenger could go to Bath and bring back new horses; in that way they might still be in Bristol by eight in the morning.