“But will she consent to his coming, ma’am? Are you positive of that?” Mr Ringwood asked anxiously.

She gave a dry chuckle. “Oh, she will consent, never fear!”

“Beg pardon, ma’am, but you’ll not fail to deliver Sherry’s messages to her, will you? Can’t but see that he has given her a great deal of cause not to be wishful of seeing him!”

“Tell him so!” recommended her ladyship. “And you need not tell him that she is ready to fall upon his neck, Gilbert! Let him come in a humble frame of mind! I dare say it will be for the first, and very likely the last, time in his life!”

Mr Ringwood promised that he would say nothing to Sherry that would puff him up in his self-esteem, left his compliments for Hero, and went back to the Royal Crescent.

This time, the dowager having returned from the Cross Bath, Sherry took him into the dining-parlour on the ground floor and eagerly demanded to know how he had sped. His face fell when he heard that Mr Ringwood had not had speech with Hero herself, but his spirits rose mercurially when he learned that he would find her alone that evening, and he wrung Mr Ringwood’s hand fervently, quite forgetting that there had ever been a moment when he had not been in perfect charity with him.

As for Hero, when her hostess recounted to her the morning’s interview with Mr Ringwood, her feelings so far overcame her that she bounced up in her bed, cast her arms round Lady Saltash, and ruthlessly hugged her, to the gross disarrangement of her ladyship’s second-best wig. Called to order, she at once became very docile, even promising to remain quietly in her bed during the afternoon, if Lady Saltash would but instruct her cook to prepare for dinner all Sherry’s favourite dishes. She then lay and watched the clock until she could bear it no longer, when she rang for her maid, and had herself dressed in a gown Sherry had once commended. She flitted restlessly about the house after that, until Lady Saltash complained that she gave her the fidgets. Bath hours not being as late as those fashionable in London, her ladyship set forth for her dinner-party at six o’clock, prosaically reminding her protégée not to forget to see that Pug had his usual run.

It was Hero’s custom to lead this animal out to take the air for a few minutes before Lady Saltash’s dinner-hour; and when Lady Saltash had driven away in her barouche she thought that she would fill in the lagging time in this fashion. Accordingly, she put on her hooded cloak, took Pug’s leash in her hand, and let herself out of the front door. It was growing dark by this time, but there was still light enough to make a short walk round the Upper and Lower Place unobjectionable. It was, besides, so select a neighbourhood that there was little or no fear of her meeting any undesirable persons. She tripped along, Pug snorting at her heels, her thoughts winging ahead to the magic hour of seven o’clock. So lost in these thoughts was she that she barely noticed a vehicle drawn up in Lower Camden Place. She did indeed perceive its outline, vague in the gathering gloom, but she did not even wonder at it until there suddenly loomed up before her the figure of a man in a caped greatcoat and a tall beaver hat. She gave a gasp then of fright, but she had no time to do more before she was caught up into a strong embrace. She made a frantic attempt to free herself, and tried to cry out. Her captor prevented this by setting his lips to hers and passionately kissing her. She had a glimpse of a loo-mask covering the upper half of his face, and quite suddenly she thought that she knew who it was who had waylaid her, and she got an arm free, and flung it up round his neck, returning his embrace with the utmost fervour. The sound of leisured footsteps approaching in the distance made the masked gentleman sweep her off her feet, bear her in three swift strides to the waiting post-chaise, and toss her up into it. Since she was still unconsciously clinging to Pug’s leash, this lethargic animal was swung up willy-nilly after her, and had much ado to scramble into the chaise before the door was shut on him.

Hero tumbled without ceremony on to the padded seat, picked herself up as the chaise moved forward, and found that she was laughing and crying together. The sight of the indignant Pug, panting on the floor of the chaise, effectually dried up her tears.

“Oh!” she gurgled. “Oh, you horrid little dog, how like Sherry to have thrown you in on top of me!”

Mr Tarleton, meanwhile, riding behind the chaise, was congratulating himself on the success of his outrageous plan to abduct the lady he desired to make his wife; and Sherry, already dressed for dinner with his wife, was seated at his dressing-table, impatiently assuring Lord Wrotham that no foreigner, Greek or otherwise, had had any finger in his having come to Bath.

“Well, I can’t make it out!” George said. “No making head or tail of what Ferdy says! Seems this fellow was at Eton with him. Never knew there was any Greeks there, did you? Sounds to me like a devilish rum customer, too. Always creeping up behind a man, and giving him a start. He says Duke knows him.”

“He may do so, but I don’t!” replied the Viscount. “I wish you will stop teasing me about it, and go away! Go and do the civil in the parlour! Dare say Isabella may be there by now. You’ll find Gil, too. Came to pay his respects to my mother, poor devil, and she’s had him buttonholed this past hour, listening to what some curst doctor has told her about Russian Vapour Baths.”

“I own, it was in the hope of seeing Miss Milborne that I called,” said George ingeniously. “The thing is, though, that your mother don’t like me above half, and I’d as lief you came in with me to make all smooth.”

The Viscount, who was putting the finishing touches to his cravat, said that he was a cowardly fellow after all, but if he would wait a moment, and not prate of mysterious Greeks, he would do his best for him. But even as he spoke, a knock fell on the door, and, when he called Come in! the dowager entered, clasping, ominously, her vinaigrette. She acknowledged Lord Wrotham’s presence by a slight inclination of her turbaned head, but addressed herself to her son.

“Oh, Anthony, I am so thankful you are not yet gone out! I am in such anxiety over dearest Isabella, and fear that some mishap may have occurred! She assured me she should be home by five o’clock at the latest, and here it is, half past six already, and no sign of her! And, as though that were not bad enough, I am quite overset by having this instant received Mr and Miss Chalfont, who called here to set down Isabella’s scarf, which she was so careless as to drop in the inn at Wells. My dear Anthony, it appears that she and Sir Montagu set out to drive back to Bath by a different road quite half an hour ahead of the others in the party! What can have become of them? When the news was broken to me, I had such an attack of palpitations that Mr Ringwood — so very obliging of him! such a gentlemanly man! Oh, there you are, dear Mr Ringwood! Well, I am sure — ! As I was saying, he was obliged to summon my abigail, with some hartshorn and water to revive me! For, you know, I am responsible for dear Isabella, and how I should ever be able to face her Mama if any accident were to befall her — There is nothing for it, Anthony, but for you to set out instantly in search of her in your curricle!”

“Oh, isn’t there, by Jove!” said the Viscount. “No, I thank you, ma’am! I warned Bella not to go jauntering about the country with that fellow, and if she would not heed me she may take the consequences! I am dining with my wife in Camden Place at seven o’clock, and you may judge how likely I am to break that engagement for any start of Bella’s!”

George, whose expressive eyes had been fixed on the dowager’s face throughout her speech, stepped forward at this point, saying in a low, vibrant voice: “You may leave the matter in my hands, Lady Sheringham! This concerns me more nearly than Sherry! I shall set forth on the instant, and you need have no fear that I shall not only restore Miss Milborne to you, but I shall certainly call Revesby to answer for whatever carelessness or — or villainy he has committed!”

He bowed briefly and strode towards the door, such a look of ferocity on his face that Mr Ringwood protested. “No, really, George! Really, I say! Ten to one it is due to some trifling accident, and they will arrive here at any moment! Dash it, Monty would not — George!”

Lord Wrotham, casting him no more than a contemptuous glance, vanished from the room. Mr Ringwood turned to Sherry. “Think I’d better go after him, dear old boy!” he said. “You know what he is! Don’t like Monty, but can’t let George murder him — for that’s what it would be: sheer murder! Very obedient servant, Lady Sheringham! Wish you good fortune, Sherry, dear old boy!”

The dowager sank down upon a chair, quite overcome by the sudden twist of events. She raised her handkerchief to her eyes and was just about to bemoan her son’s approaching reconciliation with his wife when a servant came to the door to announce the arrival of the Honourable Ferdy Fakenham, who had been invited to dine in the Royal Crescent. The Viscount, glad to escape a more than ordinarily foolish jeremiad from his parent, bade the man invite Ferdy to step into his room, and turned his attention to the far more pressing problem of the choice of a fob to finish off his toilet.

Ferdy, upon his entering the room, was at once regaled by his aunt with a tearful account of the disasters which, she was convinced, had overtaken them all. He shook his head and said that Monty was a Bad Man, and there was no saying where the havoc created by that old Greek fellow would end. This attracted the Viscount’s interest, and he was just going to demand an explanation of his cousin when Bootle entered the room, looking offended, and informing him that Jason, whom he freely designated a Varmint, insisted on having instant speech with him.