Captain Heron warned her to keep her own counsel, and went off to Pall Mall. He had not much expectation of finding Mr Hawkins either at the Half-Way House or anywhere else, but it was obviously no use saying so to the optimistic Viscount. By this time his brother-in-law was in fine fettle, so that whether Mr Hawkins kept his appointment or not, it seemed probable that the plan would be carried out.

About a quarter of a mile before the Half-Way House was reached, a solitary rider, walking his horse, came into view. As they drew closer he looked over his shoulder, and Captain Heron was forced to admit that he had misjudged their new acquaintance.

Mr Hawkins greeted him jovially. “Dang me if you wasn’t a-speaking the truth!” he exclaimed. His eyes ran over the Viscount’s mare approvingly. “That’s a nice bit of horse-flesh, that is,” he nodded. “But tricksy—tricksy, I’ll lay my life. You come along o’ me to the boozing ken I telled you of.”

“Got those coats?” asked the Viscount.

“Ay, all’s bowman, your honour.”

The ale-house which Mr Hawkins had made his head-quarters lay some little distance off the main road. It was an unsavoury haunt, and from the look of the company in the tap-room seemed to be frequented largely by ruffians of Mr Hawkins’s calling. As a preliminary to the adventure the Viscount called for four bumpers of brandy, for which he paid with a guinea tossed on to the counter.

“Don’t throw guineas about, you young fool!” said Captain Heron in a low voice. “You’ll have your pocket picked if you’re not more careful.”

“Ay, the Capting’s in the right of it,” said Mr Hawkins, overhearing. “I’m a bridle cull, I am—never went on the dub-lay yet, no, and never will, but there’s a couple of files got their winkers on you. We gets all sorts here—locks, files, common prigs, and foot-scamperers. Now, my bullies, drain your clanks! I got your toges up the dancers.”

Sir Roland plucked at the Captain’s sleeve. “You know, Heron,” he whispered confidentially, “this brandy—not at all the thing’. Hope it don’t get into poor Pel’s head—very wild in his cups—oh, very wild! Must keep him away from any dancers.”

“I don’t think he meant “dancers”,” soothed Captain Heron. “I fancy that’s a cant word.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it,” said Sir Roland, relieved. “It’s a pity he don’t speak English. Don’t follow him at all, you know.”

Mr Hawkins’s dancers proved to be a flight of rickety stairs, up which he led them to a malodorous bedroom. Sir Roland recoiled on the threshold, raising his scented handkerchief to his nose. “Pel—no, really Pel!” he said faintly.

“Smells a bit of onions,” remarked the Viscount. He picked up a battered tricorne from a chair, and casting aside his rakish chapeau a la Valaque, clapped it over his fair, unpowdered locks. He surveyed the effect in the cracked mirror, and chuckled. “How d’you like it, Pom?”

Sir Roland shook his head. “It ain’t a hat, Pel. You couldn’t call it a hat.”

Mr Hawkins gave a guffaw. “It’s a rare shap, that one. Better nor yours.”

He handed the Viscount a muffler, and showed him how to tie it to conceal every vestige of his lace cravat. The Viscount’s shining top-boots made him purse his lips. “You could see your face in them stampers,” he said. “Hows’ever, it can’t be helped.” He watched Sir Roland struggle into a large triple-caped overcoat, and handed him a hat more battered than the Viscount’s. He eyed Sir Roland’s elegant gauntlets disparagingly. “Properly speaking, you don’t want no famstrings,” he said. “But I dunno. Maybe you’d best keep them white dabblers o’ yours covered. Now, you gen’lemen, stow these here masks away till I gives the word to put ’em on. Not till we gets to the Heath that won’t be.”

Captain Heron pulled his muffler tight and jammed his beaver well over his eyes. “Well, at all events, Pelham, I defy my own wife to recognize me in these clothes,” he remarked. “I could only wish that the coat were not so tight round the chest. Are we ready?”

Mr Hawkins was pulling a wooden case from under the bed. This he opened, and displayed three horse pistols. “I got two myself, but I couldn’t come by no more,” he said.

The Viscount lifted one of these weapons, and grimaced. “Clumsy. You can have it, Pom. I brought my own.”

“Not them little pops all over wedge?” asked Mr Hawkins, frowning.

“Lord, no! Horse pistols like your own. You’d best leave the shooting to me, Pom. No knowing what will happen if you let that barker off.”

“That gun,” said Mr Hawkins, offended, “belonged to Gentleman Joe, him as went to the Nubbing Cheat a twelve-month back. Ah, and a rare buzz he was!”

“Fellow who robbed the French Mail about a year ago?” inquired the Viscount. “Hanged him, didn’t they?”

“That’s what I said,” replied Mr Hawkins.

“Well, I don’t care for his taste in pistols,” said the Viscount, handing the weapon over to Sir Roland. “Let’s be going.”

They trooped down the wooden stairs again, and out into the yard, where a couple of seedy-looking men were walking the horses up and down. These Mr Hawkins sent about their business. The Viscount tossed them a couple of silver pieces, and went to see that his pistols were still safe in the saddle holsters. Mr Hawkins told him he need not be anxious. “Couple o’ my own lads, they are,” he said, hoisting himself on to the back of a big brown gelding.

The Viscount swung lightly into the saddle, glancing over the brown horse’s points. “Where did you steal that nag?” he asked.

Mr Hawkins grinned, and laid a finger to the side of his nose.

Sir Roland, whose horse, apparently having as poor an opinion of the hostelry as his master, was sidling and fidgeting in a fret to be off, ranged alongside the Viscount and said: “Pel, we can’t ride down the high road in these clothes! Damme, I won’t do it!”

“High road?” said Mr Hawkins. “Lord love you, it ain’t high roads for us, my bully! You follow me.”

The way Mr Hawkins chose was unknown to his companions, and seemed very tortuous. He skirted every village, took a wide detour round Hounslow and led them eventually on to the Heath shortly after one. Ten minutes’ canter brought the main Bath Road into sight.

“You want to lie up where no one won’t see you,” advised Mr Hawkins. “There’s a bit of a hill I knows of, with some bushes atop. Know the look of our man’s rabler?”

“Do I know the look of his what?” said the Viscount.

“His rabler—his coach is what I mean!”

“Well, I do wish you’d say what you mean,” said the Viscount severely. “He’s driving a chaise-and-four, that’s all I know.”

“Don’t you know his horses?” asked Captain Heron.

“I know the pair he drives in his curricle, but that don’t help us. We’ll stop the first chaise we see, and if it ain’t him, we’ll stop the next.”

“That’s it,” agreed Sir Roland, dubiously eyeing his mask. “Daresay we’ll need some practice. Look here, Pel, I don’t at all like this mask. There’s too much of it.”

“For my part,” said Captain Heron with an irrepressible laugh, “I’m thanking God for mine!”

“Well, if I put it on it’ll hang down all over my face,” objected Sir Roland. “Shan’t be able to breathe.”

They had come by this time to the hillock Mr Hawkins had mentioned. The bushes which grew on its slope afforded excellent protection, and it commanded a long view of the road, from which it was set back at a distance of about fifty yards. Reaching the top of it, they dismounted, and sat down to await their prey.

“I don’t know if it has occurred to you, Pelham,” said Captain Heron; removing his hat, and throwing it down on the grass beside him, “but if we stop many chaises before we chance on the one we’re after, our first victims are likely to have plenty of time to inform against us in Hounslow.” He looked across the Viscount’s sprawling person to Mr Hawkins. “Ever had that happen to you, my friend?”

Mr Hawkins, who was chewing a blade of grass, grinned. “Ah, I’ve had it happen. No scout-cull ain’t snabbled me yet.”

“Burn it, man, how many chaises do you expect to see?” said the Viscount.

“Well, it’s the main Bath Road,” Captain Heron pointed out.

Sir Roland removed his mask, which he had been trying on, to say: “Bath season not begun yet.”

Captain Heron stretched himself full-length on the springy turf, and clasped his hands lightly over his eyes to protect them from the sun. “You’re fond of betting, Pelham,” he said lazily. “I’ll lay you ten to one in guineas that something goes wrong with this precious scheme of yours.”

“Done!” said the Viscount promptly. “But it was your scheme, not mine.”

“Something coming!” announced Sir Roland suddenly.

Captain Heron sat up, and groped for his hat.

“That’s no post-chaise,” said their guide and mentor, still chewing his blade of grass. He glanced up at the sun, calculating the time. “Likely it’s the Oxford stage.”

In a few moments the vehicle came into sight round a bend in the road, some way off. It was a great lumbering coach, drawn by six horses, and piled high with baggage. Beside the coachman sat an armed guard, and all over the roof such passengers who could only afford to pay half their fare perched and clung precariously.

“Don’t touch stage rablers myself,” remarked Mr Hawkins, watching the coach lurch and sway over the bumps in the road. “Nothing to be had but a rum fam or two, or a thin truss.”

The coach laboured ponderously on, and was presently lost to sight. The noise of the plodding hooves was borne back in the still air for long after it had gone, growing fainter and fainter until at last it died.

A solitary horseman bearing westwards passed next. Mr. Hawkins sniffed at him, and shook his head. “Small game,” he said scornfully.

Silence, except for the trill of a lark somewhere overhead, again fell over the Heath. Captain Heron dozed peacefully; the Viscount took snuff. The sound of a coach travelling fast broke the stillness after perhaps twenty minutes had elapsed. The Viscount nudged Captain Heron sharply, and picked up his mask. Mr Hawkins cocked his head on one side, listening “Six horses there,” he pronounced. “Hear ’em?”

The Viscount had risen, and put his mare’s bridle over her head. He paused. “Six?”

“Ay, outriders, I dessay. Might be the Mail.” He looked histhree companions over. “Four on us—what do you say, my bullies?”

“Good God, no!” replied the Viscount. “Can’t rob the Mail!”

Mr Hawkins sighed. “It’s a rare chance,” he said wistfully. “Ah, what did I tell you? Bristol Mail, that is.”

The Mail had swept round the bend, accompanied by two outriders. The horses, nearing the end of the stage, were sweating, and one of the leaders showed signs of lameness,

A wagon, going at a snail’s pace along the white road, was theonly other thing that relieved the monotony during the next quarter of an hour. Mr Hawkins remarked that he knew a cove who got a tidy living prigging the goods off tumblers, but he himself despised so debased a calling.

Sir Roland yawned. “We’ve seen one stage, one mail, man riding a roan cob, and a wagon. I call it devilish dull, pel. Poor sport! Heron, did you think to bring a pack of cards?”

“No,” answered Captain Heron sleepily.

“No, no more did I,” said Sir Roland, and relapsed into silence.

Presently Mr Hawkins put his hand to his ear. “Ah,” he said deeply, “that sounds more like it! You want to get your masks on, gen’lemen. There’s a chaise coming.”

“Don’t believe it,” said Sir Roland gloomily, but he put his mask on and got into the saddle.

The Viscount fixed his own mask, and once more crushed the hat on to his head. “Lord, Pom, if you could see yourself!” he said.

Sir Roland, who was engaged in blowing the curtain of his mask away from his mouth, paused to say: “I can see you, Pel. That’s enough. More than enough.”

Mr Hawkins mounted the brown gelding. “Now, my bullies all, take it easy. We ride down on ’em, see? You wants to be careful how you looses off them pops. I’m a peaceable cove, and we don’t want no killing.” He nodded at the Viscount. “You’re handy with your pop; you and me’ll do the shooting, and mind it’s over their nobs!”

The Viscount drew one of his pistols from the holster. “Wonder how the mare will take it?” he said cheerfully.” Steady, Firefly! Steady, lass!”

A post-chaise drawn by four trotting horses came round the bend. Mr Hawkins snatched at the Viscount’s bridle. “Easy, easy!” he begged. “Give ’em time to come alongside! No sense in letting ’em see us yet. You wait on me.”