He ran to the stables, called to the groom, clapped a saddle on the horse that had just brought him home, and in about three minutes was riding down the avenue, while his lad reached the gate and swung it open just in time.  Then Grimbal galloped into the night, with heart and soul fixed upon his letter.  He meant to recover it at any reasonable cost.  The white road streaked away beneath him, and a breeze created by his own rapid progress steadied him as he hastened on.  Presently at a hill-foot, he saw how to save a mile or more by short cuts over meadow-land, so left the highway, rode through a hayfield, and dashed from it by a gap into a second.  Then he grunted and the sound was one of satisfaction, for his tremendous rate of progress had served its object and already, creeping on the main road far ahead, he saw the vehicle which held the mail.

Meanwhile Blanchard and the man-servant stood and watched John Grimbal’s furious departure.

“Pity,” said Will.  “No call to do it.  I’ve took his word, an’ the end ’s the same, letter or no letter.  Now let me finish that theer brandy, then I’ll go home.”

But Mr. Vallack heard nothing.  He was gazing out into the night and shaking with fear.

“High treason ’gainst the law of the land to lay a finger on the mail.  A letter posted be like a stone flinged or a word spoken—­out of our keeping for all time.  An’ me to blame for it.  I’m a ruined man along o’ taking tu much ‘pon myself an’ being tu eager for others.  He’ll fling me out, sure ’s death.  ‘T is all up wi’ me.”

“As to that, I reckon many a dog gets a kick wheer he thinks he ’s earned a pat,” said Will; “that’s life, that is.  An’ maybe theer’s sore hearts in dumb beasts, tu, sometimes, for a dog loves praise like a woman.  He won’t sack ’e.  You done what ’peared your duty.”

Blanchard then left the house, slowly proceeded along the avenue and presently passed out on to the highroad.  As he walked the pain of his leg diminished, but he put no strain upon it and proceeded very leisurely towards home.  Great happiness broke into his mind, undimmed by aching bones and bruises.  The reflection that he was reconciled to John Grimbal crowded out lesser thoughts.  He knew the other had spoken truth, and accepted his headlong flight to arrest the mail as sufficient proof of it.  Then he thought of the possibility of giving himself up before Grimbal’s letter should come to be read.

At home Phoebe was lying awake in misery waiting for him.  She had brought up to their bedroom a great plate of cold bacon with vegetables and a pint of beer; and as Will slowly appeared she uttered a cry and embraced him with thanksgivings.  Upon Blanchard’s mind the return to his wife impressed various strange thoughts.  He soothed her, comforted her, and assured her of his safety.  But to him it seemed that he spoke with a stranger, for half a century of experience appeared to stretch between the present and his departure from Monks Barton about three hours before.  His wife experienced similar sensations.  That this cheerful, battered, hungry man could be the same who had stormed from her into the night a few short hours before, appeared impossible.