It was not long in putting in an appearance. It rounded a bend in the deserted road ahead, a green-and-gold monstrosity, rocking and swaying top-heavily in the centre of the road, with half a dozen outside passengers on the roof, the boot piled high with baggage, and the guard sitting up behind with the yard of tin in his hand.

Sir Richard drew the curricle across the road, hitched up his reins, and jumped lightly down from the box-seat. The bays were quiet enough by this time, and except for some fidgeting, showed no immediate disposition to bolt.

Finding his way barred, the stage-coachman pulled up his team, and demanded aggrievedly what game Sir Richard thought he was playing.

“No game at all!” said Sir Richard. “You have a fugitive aboard, and when I have taken him into custody, you are at liberty to proceed on your way.”

“Ho, I am, am I?” said the coachman, nonplussed, but by no means mollified. “Fine doings on the King’s Highway! Ah, and so you’ll find afore you’re much older!”

One of the inside passengers, a red-faced man with very bushy whiskers, poked his head out of the window to discover the reason for the unexpected halt; the guard climbed down from the roof to argue with Sir Richard; and Pen, squashed between a fat farmer, and a woman with a perpetual sniff, had a sudden fear that she had been overtaken by the Bow Street Runner. The sound of the guard’s voice, saying: “There, and if I didn’t suspicion him from the werry moment I set eyes on him at Kingswood!” did nothing to allay her alarms. She turned a white, frightened face towards the door, just as it was pulled open, and the steps let down.

The next instant, Sir Richard’s tall, immaculate person filled the opening, and Pen, uttering an involuntary sound between a squeak and a whimper, turned first red, and then white, and managed to utter the one word: “No!”

“Ah!” said Sir Richard briskly. “So there you are! Out you come, my young friend!”

“Well, I never did in all my life!” gasped the woman beside Pen. “Whatever has he been and gone and done, sir?”

“Run away from school,” replied Sir Richard, without a moment’s hesitation.

“I haven’t! It isn’t t-true!” stammered Pen. “I won’t go with you, I w-won’t!”

Sir Richard, leaning into the coach, and grasping her hand, said: “Oh, won’t you, by Jove? Don’t you dare to defy me, you—brat!”

“Here, guv’nor, steady!” expostulated a kindly man in the far corner. “I don’t know when I’ve taken more of a fancy to a lad, and there’s no call for you to bully him, I’m sure! Dare say there’s many of us have wanted to run away from school in our time, eh?”

“Ah,” said Sir Richard brazenly, “but you do not know the half of it! You think he looks a young innocent, but I could tell you a tale of his depravity which would shock you.”

“Oh, how dare you?” said Pen indignantly. “It isn’t true! Indeed, it isn’t!”

The occupants of the coach had by this time ranged themselves into two camps. Several persons said that they had suspected the young varmint of running away from the start, and Pen’s supporters demanded to know who Sir Richard was, and what right he had to drag the poor young gentleman out of the coach.

“Every right!” responded Sir Richard. “I am his guardian. In fact, he is my nephew.”

“I am not!” stated Pen.

His eyes looked down into hers, with so much laughter in them that she felt her heart turn over. “Aren’t you?” he said. “Well, if you are not my nephew, brat, what are you?”

Aghast, she choked: “Richard, you—you—traitor!”

Even the kindly man in the corner seemed to feel that Sir Richard’s question called for an answer. Pen looked helplessly round, encountered nothing but glances either of disapproval, or of interrogation, and raised her wrathful eyes to Sir Richard’s face.

“Well?” said Sir Richard inexorably. “Are you my nephew?”

“Yes—no! Oh, you are abominable! You wouldn’t dare!”

“Yes, I would,” said Sir Richard. “Are you going to get out, or are you not?”

A man in a plum-coloured coat recommended Sir Richard to dust the young rascal’s jacket for him. Pen stared up at Sir Richard, read the determination behind the amusement in his face, and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, and out of the stuffy coach.

“P’raps when you’ve quite finished, your honour, you’ll be so werry obliging as to move that curricle of yourn!” said the coachman sardonically.

“Richard, I can’t go back!” Pen said in a frantic undertone. “That Runner caught me in Bristol, and I only just contrived to escape!”

“Ah, that must have been what Cedric was trying to tell me!” said Sir Richard, walking up to the bays, and backing them to the side of the road. “So you were arrested, were you? What a splendid adventure for you, my little one!”

“And I have left your cloak-bag behind, and it’s no use trying to drag me away with you, because I won’t go! I won’t, I won’t!”

“Why won’t you?” asked Sir Richard, turning to look down at her.

She found herself unable to speak. There was an expression in Sir Richard’s eyes which brought the colour rushing into her cheeks again, and made her feel as though the world were whirling madly round her. Behind her, the guard, having let up the steps, and shut the door, climbed, grumbling, on to the roof again. The coach began to move ponderously forward. Pen paid no heed to it, though the wheels almost brushed her coat. “Richard, you—you don’t want me! You can’t want me!” she said uncertainly.

“My darling!” he said. “Oh, my precious, foolish little love!”

The coach lumbered on down the road; as it reached the next bend, the roof-passengers, looking back curiously to see the last of a very odd couple, experienced a shock that made one of them nearly lose his balance. The golden-haired stripling was locked in the Corinthian’s arms, being ruthlessly kissed.

“Lawks a-mussy on us! whatever is the world a-coming to?” gasped the roof-passenger, recovering his seat. “I never did in all my born days!”

“Richard, Richard, they can see us from the coach!” expostulated Pen, between tears and laughter.

“Let them see!” said the Corinthian.