“A late traveler, Dickon,” said Desmond.

“Ay, maybe a king’s post, Measter Desmond,” replied the old man.

Without more words they went on till they came to a lane leading to the laborer’s cottage.

“We part here,” said Desmond.  “Dickon, good night!”

“Good night to you, sir!” said the old man.  He paused; then, in a grave, earnest, quavering voice, he added:  “The Lord Almighty have you in his keeping, Measter Desmond, watch over you night and day, now and evermore.”

And with that he hobbled down the lane.

At nine o’clock that night Richard Burke left the Grange—­an unusual thing for him—­and walked quickly to the Four Alls.  The inn was closed, and shutters darkened the windows; but, seeing a chink of light between the folds, the farmer knocked at the door.  There was no answer.  He knocked again and again, grumbling under his breath.  At length, when his patience was almost exhausted, a window above opened, and, looking up, Mr. Burke dimly saw a head.

“Is that you, Grinsell?” he asked.

“No, massa.”

“Oh, you’re the black boy, Mr. Diggle’s servant.  Is your master in?”

“No, massa.”

“Well, come down and open the door.  I’ll wait for him.”

“Massa said no open door for nuffin.”

“Confound you, open at once!  He knows me; I’m a friend of his; open the door!”

“Massa said no open door for nobody.”

The farmer pleaded, stormed, cursed, but Scipio Africanus was inflexible.  His master had given him orders, and the boy had learned, at no little cost, that it was the wisest and safest policy to obey.  Finding that neither threats nor persuasion availed, Burke took a stride or two in the direction of home; then he halted, pondered for a moment, changed his mind, and began to pace up and down the road.

His restless movements were by and by checked by the sound of footsteps approaching.  He crossed the road, stood in the shadow of an elm and waited.  The footsteps drew nearer; he heard low voices, and now discerned two dark figures against the lighter road.  They came to the inn and stopped.  One of them took a key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock.

“’Tis you at last,” said Burke, stepping out from his place of concealment.  “That boy of yours would not let me in, hang him!”

At the first words Diggle started and swung round, his right hand flying to his pocket; but, recognizing the voice almost immediately, he laughed.

“’Tis you, my friend,” he said.  “Multa de nocte profectus es.  But you’ve forgot all your Latin, Dick.  What is the news, man?  Come in.”

“The bird is flitting, Sim, that’s all.  He has not been home.  His mother was in a rare to-do.  I pacified her; told her I’d sent him to Chester to sell oats—­haw, haw!  He has taken some clothes and gone.  But he won’t go far, I trow, without seeing you, and I look to you to carry out the bargain.”