Bank. You must know Tellson's Bank in London. I am going to Paris on business. A crown to drink. I may read this?"
"If so be as you're quick, sir."
He opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and read—first to himself and then aloud: "'Wait at Dover for Mam'selle.' It's not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say that my answer was, recalled to life."
Jerry started in his saddle. "That's a Blazing strange answer, too," said he, at his hoarsest.
"Take that message back, and they will know that I received this, as well as if I wrote. Make the best of your way. Good night."
With those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got in; not at all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted their watches and purses in their boots, and were now making a general pretence of being asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape the hazard of originating any other kind of action.
The coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of mist closing round it as it began the descent. The guard soon replaced his blunderbuss in his arm-chest, and, having looked to the rest of its contents, and having looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt, looked to a smaller chest beneath his seat, in which there were a few smith's tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box. For he was furnished with that completeness that if the coach-lamps had been blown and stormed out, which did occasionally happen, he had only to shut himself up inside, keep the flint and steel sparks well off the straw, and get a light with tolerable safety and ease (if he were lucky) in five minutes.
"Tom!" softly over the coach-roof.
"Hallo, Joe."
"Did you hear the message?"
"I did, Joe."
"What did you make of it, Tom?"
