“Limping Lucy has a will of her own, sir.  She wouldn’t give it into any hands but yours.  And you had left England before I could write to you.”

“Let’s go back, Betteredge, and get it at once!”

“Too late, sir, to-night.  They’re great savers of candles along our coast; and they go to bed early at Cobb’s Hole.”

“Nonsense!  We might get there in half an hour.”

“You might, sir.  And when you did get there, you would find the door locked.  He pointed to a light, glimmering below us; and, at the same moment, I heard through the stillness of the evening the bubbling of a stream.  ’There’s the Farm, Mr. Franklin!  Make yourself comfortable for to-night, and come to me to-morrow morning if you’ll be so kind?’”

“You will go with me to the fisherman’s cottage?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Early?”

“As early, Mr. Franklin, as you like.”

We descended the path that led to the Farm.

CHAPTER III

I have only the most indistinct recollection of what happened at
Hotherstone’s Farm.

I remember a hearty welcome; a prodigious supper, which would have fed a whole village in the East; a delightfully clean bedroom, with nothing in it to regret but that detestable product of the folly of our fore-fathers—­a feather-bed; a restless night, with much kindling of matches, and many lightings of one little candle; and an immense sensation of relief when the sun rose, and there was a prospect of getting up.

It had been arranged over-night with Betteredge, that I was to call for him, on our way to Cobb’s Hole, as early as I liked—­which, interpreted by my impatience to get possession of the letter, meant as early as I could.  Without waiting for breakfast at the Farm, I took a crust of bread in my hand, and set forth, in some doubt whether I should not surprise the excellent Betteredge in his bed.  To my great relief he proved to be quite as excited about the coming event as I was.  I found him ready, and waiting for me, with his stick in his hand.

“How are you this morning, Betteredge?”

“Very poorly, sir.”

“Sorry to hear it.  What do you complain of?”

“I complain of a new disease, Mr. Franklin, of my own inventing.  I don’t want to alarm you, but you’re certain to catch it before the morning is out.”

“The devil I am!”

“Do you feel an uncomfortable heat at the pit of your stomach, sir? and a nasty thumping at the top of your head?  Ah! not yet?  It will lay hold of you at Cobb’s Hole, Mr. Franklin.  I call it the detective-fever; and I first caught it in the company of Sergeant Cuff.”

“Aye! aye! and the cure in this instance is to open Rosanna Spearman’s letter, I suppose?  Come along, and let’s get it.”

Early as it was, we found the fisherman’s wife astir in her kitchen.  On my presentation by Betteredge, good Mrs. Yolland performed a social ceremony, strictly reserved (as I afterwards learnt) for strangers of distinction.  She put a bottle of Dutch gin and a couple of clean pipes on the table, and opened the conversation by saying, “What news from London, sir?”