When this was done he put on his hat, and
went out at the great arched gateway of the castle, whence he made his
way to the village street. Here he spent the rest of the evening, and
he made very excellent use of his time, though he passed the greater
part of it in the parlour of the "Hen and Chickens," drinking very weak
brandy-and-water, and listening to the conversation of the gentry who
patronized that house of entertainment.
Among those gentry was the good-tempered, but somewhat weak-minded,
Matthew Brook, the coachman.
"I'll tell you what it is, Mat Brook," said a stout, red-faced
individual, who was butler at one of the mansions in the neighbourhood
of Raynham, "you've not been yourself for the last week; not since
little Missy was stolen from the castle yonder. You must have been
uncommonly fond of that child."
"I was fond of her, bless her dear little heart," replied Matthew.
But though this assertion, so far as it went, was perfectly true, there
was some slight hesitation in the coachman's manner of uttering it--a
hesitation which Andrew Larkspur was not slow to perceive.
"And you've lost your new friend down at the 'Cat and Fiddle,' where
you was beginning to spend more of your evenings than you spent here.
What's become of that man Maunders--eh, Brook?" asked the butler. "That
was a rather queer thing--his leaving Raynham so suddenly, leaving his
house to take care of itself, or to be taken care of by a stupid
country wench, who doesn't know her business any more than a cow.
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