The Marquis led her up the gangway and along the quayside until the Coq d’Or was reached. “Your gear has been taken up,” he said.

She looked at him, puzzled. “But I have none,” she said.

“You are forgetting,” he replied ironically, “I told Sophia to bring nothing, but promised I would provide her with what she might need.”

“Have you bought—dresses for Sophia?” she demanded incredulously.

He grinned. “Oh, not only dresses,” he replied. “You can teach me nothing of what a lady requires. Shifts, négligées, lappets, beads, perfume from Warren’s, Poudre a la Maréchale—you’ll find ’em all there. I have endless experience, I can assure you.”

“That I do not doubt,” she said.

He bowed. “I trust you will approve my taste,” he said, and handed her over to the waiting abigail.

Miss Challoner saw nothing for it but to go upstairs in the wake of this damsel. She had a very fair notion of what her appearance must be, and she felt quite unequal to the coming scene with the Marquis until she had tidied her person.

She spoke French prettily enough, and had no difficulty in making the maid-servant understand her wants. She washed her face and hands, did up her hair again, using the brush and comb of his lordship’s providing, and very gingerly withdrew the pistol from the pocket of her cloak. She thought she would be able to hold it so that the panniers of her gown concealed it from view, and practised this in front of the mirror. Deciding that it was hardly successful, she held the pistol in her right hand and draped her cloak over her arm, so that its folds fell over the weapon. Satisfied, she left her chamber and went downstairs to the private parlour his lordship had engaged.

He was standing by the fire with a glass in his hand. Suddenly she knew why his eyes glittered so strangely; his lordship had been drinking, and was drinking still.

She took one quick look at Mm, and went to the table, and seated herself, holding the pistol under her skirts, and putting her cloak over the back of her chair.

“I find that you were right, sir,” she remarked politely. “I shall be the better for some food.”

He strolled over to his chair and sat down. “You look as though you need something to warm you,” he said. “Will you drink burgundy with me, or ratafia by yourself?”

“Thank you, my lord, I will drink water,” answered Miss Challoner firmly.

“As you please,” he shrugged and leaned back in his chair, lazily watching her.

The entrance of a liveried man, followed by one of the inn-servants created a welcome diversion. The discreet-looking man began to serve them, and surprised Miss Challoner by addressing her in her own tongue.

“I always travel with my own servants,” explained the Marquis, observing her surprise.

“An agreeable luxury, sir,” commented Miss Challoner.

She made an excellent dinner, and maintained a flow of easy conversation for the benefit of his lordship’s servant The Marquis emptied his bottle of burgundy, and sent for a second. Miss Challoner’s heart sank, but the wine only seemed to make his lordship readier of tongue. There was a certain air of recklessness about him, but he was far from being drunk. Miss Challoner, dreading the inevitable tête-à-tête, lingered over the sweetmeats. When she at last ended her repast, the Marquis signed to his servant, who, in his turn, directed the French hireling to clear away the covers. Vidal got up and lounged over to the fire again. Miss Challoner stayed where she was, only pushing her chair back a little way from the table.

“Will your lordship require anything further tonight?” asked the servant.

“Nothing,” Vidal answered.

The man bowed, and withdrew. Vidal spoke softly: “Come here.”

“I have something to say to you first, my lord,” returned Miss Challoner calmly.

“Good God, girl, do you suppose it was to hear you talk that I brought you to France?” Vidal said derisively. “I’ll swear you know better than that!”

“Perhaps,” admitted Miss Challoner. “Nevertheless, sir, I beg you will listen to me. You won’t pretend, I hope, that you are fallen in love with me.”

“Love?” he said scornfully. “No, madam. I feel no more love for you than I felt for your pretty sister. But you’ve thrown yourself at my head, and by God I’ll take you!” His eyes ran over her. “You’ve a mighty trim figure, my dear, and from what I can discover, more brain than Sophia. You lack her beauty, but I’m not repining.”

She looked gravely up at him. “My lord, if you take me, it will be for revenge, I think. Have I deserved so bitter a punishment?”

“You’re not very complimentary, are you?” he mocked. She rose, holding her pistol behind her. “Let me go now,” she said. “You do not want me, and indeed I think you have punished me enough.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” he said. “Are you piqued that I liked Sophia better? Never heed it, my dear; I’ve forgotten the wench already.”

“My lord,” she said desperately, “indeed I am not what you think me!”

He burst into one of his wild laughs, and she realized that in this mood she could make no impression on him.

He was advancing towards her. She brought her right hand from behind her, and levelled the pistol. “Stand where you are!” she said. “If you come one step nearer I shall shoot you down.”

He stopped short. “Where did you get that thing?” he demanded.

“Out of your coach,” she answered.

“Is it loaded?”

“I don’t know,” said Miss Challoner, incurably truthful.

He began to laugh again, and walked forward. “Shoot then,” he invited, “and we shall know. For I am coming several steps nearer, my lady.”

Miss Challoner saw that he meant it, shut her eyes and resolutely pulled the trigger. There was a deafening report and the Marquis went staggering back. He recovered in a moment. “It was loaded,” he said coolly.

Miss Challoner’s eyes flew open. She saw that Vidal was feeling his left arm above the elbow, and to her dismay she watched a red stain grow upon his sleeve. She dropped the pistol, and her hand went up to her cheek. “Oh, what have I done?” she cried. “Have I hurt you very badly?”

He was laughing again, but quite differently now, as though he were really amused. “You’ve hurt old Plançon’s wall more than you’ve hurt me,” he answered.

M. Plançon himself burst into the room at this moment, his eyes fairly starting from his head. A flood of questions broke from him, accompanied by much excited gesticulation. My lord disposed of nun summarily enough. “Calm yourself, my friend. Madame merely wished to assure herself that my pistol was in order.”

“But milor’, in my hdtel! My beautiful salle he is spoiled! Ah, mon Dieu, but regard me that hole in the wall!”

“Put it down on the shot, you old villain, and remove your fat carcase from my sight,” said his lordship. He saw his steward behind the agitated landlord. “Fletcher, take the fool away.”

“Certainly, my lord,” said Fletcher impassively, and drew M. Plangon out of the room.

Miss Challoner said guiltily: “Oh dear, I am sorry! I did not know it would make such a stir.”

Vidal’s eyes began to twinkle. “You’ve spoiled his beautiful salle, and you’ve spoiled my no less beautiful coat.”

“I know,” said Miss Challoner, hanging her head. “But, after all, it was your fault,” she said with spirit. “You told me to do it.”

“I may have told you to do it, but I can’t say I thought that you Would,” replied his lordship.

“You shouldn’t have come any nearer,” she said severely.

“Obviously,” he agreed. He began to strip off his coat.

“I make you my compliments. I know of only one other woman who would have had the courage to pull that trigger.”

“Who is she?” inquired Miss Challoner.

“My mother. Come and bind up your handiwork. I’m spoiling old Plançon’s carpet.”

Miss Challoner came promptly and took the handkerchief he held out to her. “Are you sure it is not serious?” she asked anxiously. “It bleeds dreadfully.”

“Quite sure. I observe that the sight of blood don’t turn you queasy.”

“I am not such a fool, sir.” Miss Challoner began to roll up his sleeve. “I fear the lace is ruined, my lord. Am I hurting you?”

“Not at all,” said Vidal politely.

Miss Challoner made a pad of her own handkerchief, and bound the wound up tightly with my lord’s.

“Thank you,” he said when this operation was over. “Now if you will help me to put on my coat again, we will talk.”

“Do you think you had better put it on?” asked Miss Challoner doubtfully. “Perhaps it may start to bleed again.”

“My good girl, it’s the veriest scratch!” said Vidal.

“I was afraid I had killed you,” confided Miss Challoner.

He grinned. “You’re not a good enough shot, my dear.” He struggled into his coat, and then pulled a chair to the fire. “Sit down,” he said. She hesitated and he drew one of his own pistols from his pocket and gave it to her. “Shoot me with that next time,” he recommended. “You’ll find it easier.”

She sat down, but though she smiled, her voice was serious when she answered. “If I shoot again, it had better be myself,” she said.

He leaned forward and took the pistol away from her. “In that case, I’ll keep it.” He looked at her frowningly. “You had better explain,” he said abruptly. “I’ve a notion I was right in my first reading of your character.”

“What was that, sir?”

“I thought you were devilish strait-laced.” She nodded. “Yes, my lord,” she said simply.

“Then in God’s name, girl, what possessed you to play this hoyden’s trick on me?”