The letter from Major Waring said:—­

“I must see you immediately.  Be quick and come.  I begin to be of your opinion—­there are some things which we must take into our own hands and deal summarily with.”

“Ay!—­ay!” Robert gave tongue in the clear morning air, scenting excitement and eager for it as a hound.

More was written, which he read subsequently

“I wrong,” Percy’s letter continued, “the best of women.  She was driven to my door.  There is, it seems, some hope that Dahlia will find herself free.  At any rate, keep guard over her, and don’t leave her.  Mrs. Lovell has herself been moving to make discoveries down at Warbeach.  Mr. Blancove has nearly quitted this sphere.  She nursed him—­I was jealous!—­the word’s out.  Truth, courage, and suffering touch Margaret’s heart.

“Yours,

“Percy.”

Jumping over a bank, Robert came upon Anthony, who was unsteadily gazing at a donkey that cropped the grass by a gate.

“Here you are,” said Robert, and took his arm.

Anthony struggled, though he knew the grasp was friendly; but he was led along:  nor did Robert stop until they reached Greatham, five miles beyond Wrexby, where he entered the principal inn and called for wine.

“You want spirit:  you want life,” said Robert.

Anthony knew that he wanted no wine, whatever his needs might be.  Yet the tender ecstacy of being paid for was irresistible, and he drank, saying, “Just one glass, then.”

Robert pledged him.  They were in a private room, of which, having ordered up three bottles of sherry, Robert locked the door.  The devil was in him.  He compelled Anthony to drink an equal portion with himself, alternately frightening and cajoling the old man.

“Drink, I tell you.  You’ve robbed me, and you shall drink!”

“I haven’t, I haven’t,” Anthony whined.

“Drink, and be silent.  You’ve robbed me, and you shall drink! and by heaven! if you resist, I’ll hand you over to bluer imps than you’ve ever dreamed of, old gentleman!  You’ve robbed me, Mr. Hackbut.  Drink!  I tell you.”

Anthony wept into his glass.

“That’s a trick I could never do,” said Robert, eyeing the drip of the trembling old tear pitilessly.  “Your health, Mr. Hackbut.  You’ve robbed me of my sweetheart.  Never mind.  Life’s but the pop of a gun.  Some of us flash in the pan, and they’re the only ones that do no mischief.  You’re not one of them, sir; so you must drink, and let me see you cheerful.”

By degrees, the wine stirred Anthony’s blood, and he chirped feebly, as one who half remembered that he ought to be miserable.  Robert listened to his maundering account of his adventure with the Bank money, sternly replenishing his glass.  His attention was taken by the sight of Dahlia stepping forth from a chemist’s shop in the street nearly opposite to the inn.  “This is my medicine,” said Robert; “and yours too,” he addressed Anthony.