Lovel stopped for a moment at the White House, a dirty little hedge tavern, to swallow a mouthful of ale, and tell a convincing lie to John Rawson, the innkeeper, in case it should come in handy some day.

Then occurred a diversion.

Young Mr.
Forset's harriers swept past, a dozen riders attended by a ragged foot following.

They checked by the path, and in the confusion of the halt Godfrey seemed to vanish.

It was not till close on Paddington village that Mr.Lovel picked him up again.