Ovington's Bank by Stanley J. Weyman — Read

Still, the daylight had one good effect, it completed the reassurance of Mr. Hollins. He could see his man now, and judging him to be good for the money, he gave way to greed and proposed to run the horses on to Dunstable. Clement thought that he might do worse and agreed, merely halting for five minutes at the George at Brickhill, to administer a quart of ale apiece to the nags, and to take one themselves. Then they pressed on to Dunstable, which they reached at half-past eight.

Even so, Clement had still thirty miles to cover. But the postboy, a sportsman with his heart in the game, had ridden in, waving his whip and shouting for horses, and his good word spread like magic. Two minutes let the yard know that here was a golden customer, an out-and-outer, and almost before Clement could swallow a cup of scalding coffee and pocket a hot roll he had wrung the farmer's hand, fee'd old Sam to his heart's content, and was away again, on the ten-mile downhill stage to St. Albans. They cantered most of the way, the postboy's whip in the air and the chaise running after the horses, and did the distance triumphantly in forty-three minutes. Then on, with the reputation of a good paymaster, to Barnet-Barnet, that seemed to be almost as good as London.