The answer was severe. “It’s a Mr Markham, sir, running off to Gretna with a rich heiress, so they say. And the lady not out of her teens. There’s wickedness!”

“John’s propriety is offended,” murmured Miss Merriot. “We will dispose, John, since God seems unwilling. I want a stir made.”

“Best not meddle,” said John phlegmatically. “We’ve meddled enough.”

“A cry of fire,” mused Mr Merriot. “Fire or footpads. Where do I lie hid?”

“Oh, are you with me already?” admired Kate. “Let me have a fire, John, or a parcel of daring footpads, and raise the ostlers.”

John fetched a sigh. “We’ve played that trick once before. Will you never be still?”

Mr Merriot laughed. “It’s a beauty in distress, John, and Kate must be up and doing.”

A grunt only was vouchsafed, and the glimmering of a grim smile. John went out. Arose presently in the courtyard a shout, and a glow, and quickly uproar.

“Now I wonder how he made that fire?” said Miss Merriot, amused.

“There’s a shed and some straw. Enough for John. Well, it’s a fine stir.” Mr Merriot went to the window. “Mine host leads the household out in force. The wood’s so damp ’twill be out in a moment. Do your part, sister.”

Mr Merriot vanished into the deserted taproom.

Miss Merriot added then to the stir by a scream, close followed by another, and a cry of — “Fire, fire! Help, oh help!”

The door across the passage was burst open, and a dark gentleman strode out. “What in hell’s name — ?” he began. His face was handsome in the swarthy style, but flushed now with wine. His eye lighted on Miss Merriot, and a smell of burning assailed his nostrils. “What’s the noise? Gad, is the place on fire?” He came quickly into the coffee-room, and received Miss Merriot in his unwilling arms. Miss Merriot neatly tripped up her chair, and with a moan of “Save me!” collapsed onto Mr Markham’s chest.

He grasped the limp form perforce, and found it a dead weight on his arm. His companion, a slim child of no more than eighteen, ran to the window. “Oh, ’tis only an old shed caught fire away to the right!” she said.

Mr Markham strove to restore the fainting Miss Merriot. “Compose yourself, madam! For God’s sake, no vapours! There’s no danger. Damnation, Letty, pick the chair up!”

Miss Letty came away from the window towards Miss Merriot’s fallen chair. Mr Markham was tightly clasping that unconscious lady, wrath at his own helpless predicament adding to the already rich colour in his face.

“The devil take the woman, she weighs a ton!” swore Mr Markham. “Pick the chair up, I say!”

Miss Letty bent to take hold of it. She heard a door open behind her, and turning saw Mr Merriot.

Of a sudden Miss Merriot came to life. In round-eyed astonishment Miss Letty saw that lady no longer inanimate, but seemingly struggling to be free.

Mr Merriot was across the floor in a moment.

“Unhand my sister, sir!” cried he in a wonderful fury.

Miss Merriot was thrust off. “God’s Life, ’twas herself — ” began Mr Markham, but got no further. His chin came into sudden contact with Mr Merriot’s sword hilt, nicely delivered, and Mr Markham fell heavily all amongst the table legs.

“Oh, neatly done, s’faith!” vowed Miss Merriot. “Down like an ox, as I live! Set the coach forward, Peter, and you, child, upstairs with you to my chamber.”

Miss Letty’s hand was caught in a firm clasp. Quite bewildered she was swirled away by the competent Miss Merriot.

Miss Merriot’s brother put up his sword, and went out into the court. John seemed to rise up out of the gloom to meet him. “All well, sir?”

Mr Merriot nodded. “Where’s the dear gentleman’s chaise, John?”

John jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Horses put to?” inquired Mr Merriot.

“Ay, they’re ready to be off. The men are in the taproom — it’s dry they are after the great fire. There’s an ostler to the horses’ heads.”

“I don’t want that ostler there,” said Mr Merriot. “Drive the chaise past Stilton, John, and hide it somewhere where the gentleman won’t find it too soon.”

“Hide a chaise and horses, is it?” John growled.

“It is, John,” said Mr Merriot serenely. “Tell that ostler that I want a horse saddled on the instant. One of our own, if need be. I shall set the dear gentleman after you, John. God speed you.”

“Ah, it’s a mad couple you are!” said John, but he moved away to where the lights of the chaise shone. Mr Merriot heard him give the order to the ostler, and offer to hold the horses’ heads. He heard the ostler run off towards the stables and himself turned back into the coffee-room smiling placidly.

Miss Merriot had come downstairs again and was standing by the fallen Mr Markham calmly surveying him. “Well, child, is it done?” she asked.

The clatter of horses and the rumble of wheels on the cobbles answered her. John was off; they heard the chaise roll away down the road to London. Miss Merriot laughed and dropped her brother a mock curtsey. “My compliments, child. It’s you have the head, indeed. Now what to do for the poor gentleman? Water, my Peter, and a napkin. Observe me all solicitude.” She sank down on to the floor, and lifted Mr Markham’s head into her lap. Mr Merriot was chuckling again as he handed her the water, and a napkin.

The landlord came hurrying in, and stared in horror at what he saw. “Sir — madam! The gentleman’s coach is off! Oh law, madam! The gentleman!”

“Off is it?” Mr Merriot was interested. “Tut, tut! And the lady in it, belike?”

The landlord’s jaw dropped. “Ay, that would be it! But what’s come to the gentleman, sir? Good lord, sir, never say — ”

“The poor gentleman!” said Miss Merriot, holding a wet napkin to Mr. Markham’s brow. “’Twas the drink turned the head on his shoulders, I dare swear. An accident, host. I believe he won’t die of it.”

“A warning to all abductors,” said Mr Merriot piously.

A gleam of understanding shot into the landlord’s eyes. “Sir, he’ll be raving mad when he comes to.”

“A warning to you, good fellow, not to be by,” said Mr Merriot.

There was significance in Mr Merriot’s voice. It occurred to mine host that the less he knew of the matter the better it might be for himself, on all sides. He went out discreetly what time Mr Markham gave vent to a faint groan.

Mr Markham came slowly back to consciousness, and opened heavy eyes. He did not at once remember much, but he was aware of a swollen jaw-bone which hurt him. A cool hand was placed on his brow, and something wet was laid on his sore chin. He rolled his eyes upwards, groaning, and saw a fair face bent over him, framed in golden ringlets. He stared up at it, trying to collect his bemused wits, and vaguely it seemed to him that he had seen that face before, with its fine, rather ironical blue eyes, and its curiously square chin. He blinked, and frowned in the effort to pull himself together, and saw the delicate mouth smile.

“Thank God you are better!” came a cooing voice. “I have been in an agony! Dear sir, pray lie still; ’twas a cruel blow, and oh the misunderstanding! Peter, a glass of wine for the gentleman! There, sir, let me but raise your head.”

Mr Markham allowed it, perforce, and sipped at the wine held to his lips. Some of the mists were clearing from his brain. He raised himself on his elbow, and looked round.

“Oh, you are much better!” cooed the voice. “But gently, sir. Don’t, I implore you, overtax your strength.”

Mr Markham’s gaze came to rest on a flowered waistcoat. He put a hand to his head, and his eyes travelled slowly up the waistcoat to Mr Merriot’s grave face. Mr Merriot was on one knee, glass of wine in hand; Mr Merriot looked all concern.

Recollection came.

“Burn it, you’re the fellow — ” Mr Markham’s hand went to his jaw; he glared at Peter Merriot. “Did you — By God, sir, did you — ?”

“Let me help you to a chair, sir,” said Mr Merriot gently. “In truth you are shaken, and no wonder. Sir, I cannot sufficiently beg your pardon.”

Mr Markham was on his feet now, dizzy and bewildered. “Was it you knocked me down, sir? Answer me that!” he panted.

“Alas, sir, I did!” said Mr Merriot. “I came in to find my sister struggling, as I thought, in your arms. Can you blame me, sir? My action was the impulse of the moment.”

Mr Markham was put into a chair. He fought for words, a hand still held to his jaw. “Struggling? she flung herself at me in a swoon!” he burst out.

Miss Merriot was kneeling at his feet, napkin in hand. Mr Markham thrust it aside with an impotent snarl. “You have the right to be angry, sir,” sighed Miss Merriot. “’Twas all my folly, but oh sir, when the bustle started, and they were crying fire without I scarce knew what I did!” Her fair head was bent in modest confusion. Mr Markham did not heed her.

“Blame you? blame you? Yes, sir, I can!” he said wrathfully. “A damnable little puppy to — to — ” Words failed him; he sat nursing his jaw and fuming.

Mr Merriot said haughtily — “You’re heated sir, and I believe excusably. I don’t heed what you say therefore. I have asked your pardon for a mistake — understandable, I contend — that I made.”

“Puppy!” snapped Mr Markham, and drank off the rest of the wine in the glass. It seemed to restore him. He got up unsteadily and his hot gaze swept round again. “Letty!” he shot out. “Where is the girl?”

“Dear sir, indeed you are not yourself yet!” Miss Merriot laid a soothing hand on his arm. “There is no girl here save myself.”

She was shaken off. “No girl, you say?” roared Mr Markham, and went blundering towards the room across the passage. “Letty!” he shouted. “Letty, I say! Hell and damnation, her cloak’s gone!” He came back, his face dark with rage and suspicion, and caught at Mr Merriot’s straight shoulder. “Out with it! Where is she? Where have you hidden her? You don’t trick me, my fine sir!”