This ferocious threat was not, however, put into execution. Ludovic descended into the cellar at an early hour on the following morning, and the rest of the party, with the exception of Sir Hugh, who was only interested in his breakfast, prepared themselves to meet whatever peril should lie in store for them. Eustacie, who thought that she had taken far too small a part in the adventure, was feeling somewhat aggrieved, Ludovic having refused without the least hesitation to lend her one of his pistols. “I never lend my pistols,” he said. “Besides, what do you want it for?”

“But to fire, of course!” replied Eustacie impatiently.

“Good God! What at?”

“Why, at anybody who tries to come into the house!” she said, opening her eyes in surprise at his stupidity. “And if you would let Sarah have one too, she could help me. After all, we may find ourselves in great danger, you know.”

“You won’t find yourselves in half such danger as you would if I let you have my pistols,” said Ludovic, with brutal candour.

This unfeeling response sent Eustacie off in a dudgeon to Miss Thane. Here at least she was sure of finding a sympathetic listener. Nor did Miss Thane disappoint her. She professed herself to be quite at a loss to understand the selfishness of men, and when she learned that Eustacie had planned for her also to fire upon possible desperadoes, she said that she could almost wish that she had not been told of the scheme, since it made her feel quite disheartened to think of it falling to the ground.

“Well, I do think we ought to be armed,” said Eustacie wistfully. “It is true that I do not know much about guns, but one has only to point them and pull the trigger, after all.”

“Exactly,” agreed Miss Thane. “I dare say we should have accounted for any number of desperate ruffians. It is wretched indeed! We shall be forced to rely upon our wits.”

But the morning passed quietly, the only excitement being provided by Gregg, who came to the inn with the ostensible object of inquiring whether Nye could let his master have a pipe of burgundy. He left his horse in the yard, and was thus able to exchange a word with Barker, who, with the fear of transportation before him, faithfully obeyed Sir Tristram’s instructions, and said that he had no chance yet to search for the quizzing-glass.

In the afternoon Sir Hugh, following his usual custom, went upstairs to enjoy a peaceful sleep. Miss Thane and Eustacie watched the Brighton mail arrive, but since it did not set Sir Tristram down at the Red Lion, their interest in it swiftly waned. They had begun to question whether they were to experience any adventures whatsoever when, to their amazement, Beau Lavenham’s chaise passed the parlour window, drew up outside the coffee-room door, and set down the Beau himself.

He alighted unhurriedly, took care to remove a speck of dust from his sleeve, and in the calmest way imaginable walked into the inn.

“Well,” said Miss Thane, “I think this passes the bounds of reasonable effrontery! Do you suppose that he has come to pay us a ceremonious visit?”

Apparently this was his purpose, for in a few minutes Nye ushered him into the parlour. He came in with his usual smile, and bowed with all his usual flourish. “Such a happiness to find you still here!” he said. “Your very obedient, ma’am!”

“If you should be needing aught, ma’am, you have only to call,” said Nye, with slow deliberation.

“Oh yes, indeed! Pray do not wait!” said Miss Thane, slipping into her role of empty-headed femininity. “I will certainly call you if I need anything. How delightful it is to see you, Mr Lavenham! Here you find us yawning over our stitchery, quite enchanted to be receiving company. You must know that we have made all our plans for departure, and mean to set forward for London almost immediately. I am so glad to have the opportunity of taking leave of you! So very obliging you were in permitting me to visit your beautiful house! I am for ever talking of it!”

“My house was honoured, ma’am. Do I understand that your brother has at last recovered from his sad indisposition? It must have been an unconscionably bad cold to have kept him in this dull inn for so many days.”

“Yes, indeed, quite the worst he has ever had,” agreed Miss Thane. “But he has not found it dull, I assure you.”

“No?” said the Beau gently.

“Indeed, no! You must understand that he is a great judge of wine. A well-stocked cellar will reconcile him to the hardest lot. It is quite absurd!”

“Ah, yes!” said the Beau. “Nye has a great deal in his cellars, I apprehend—more perhaps than he will admit.”

“That is true,” remarked Eustacie, with considerable relish. “Grandpère was used to say that he would defy anyone to find what Nye preferred to keep hidden.”

“I fear he must have been speaking with a little exaggeration,” said the Beau. “I trust Nye will never find himself compelled to submit to a search being made for his secret cellar. Such things are very well while no one knows of their existence, but once the news of them gets about it becomes a simple matter to discover them.”

Miss Thane, listening to this speech with an air of the most guileless interest, exclaimed: “How odd that you should say that! I must tell you that my brother said at the very outset that he was convinced Nye must possess some hidden store!”

“I felicitate you, ma’am, upon being blessed with a brother of such remarkable perspicacity,” said the Beau in a mellifluous voice. He turned towards his cousin. “My dear Eustacie, I wonder if I may crave the indulgence of a few moments’ private speech with you? Miss Thane will readily understand that between cousins—”

Miss Thane interrupted him at this point, with an affected little cry. “Oh, Mr Lavenham, no, indeed! It is not to be thought of! You must know that I am this dear child’s chaperone—is it not ridiculous?—and such a thing would not do at all!”

He looked at her with narrowed eyes, and after a moment, said: “I do not recollect, ma’am, that these scruples weighed with you so heavily when you visited my house not so long since.”

Miss Thane looked distressed, and replied: “It is very true. Your reproach is just, sir. I’m such a sad shatterbrain that I forgot my duties in admiration of your library.”

He raised his brows in polite scepticism. Eustacie said: “I do not have secrets from mademoiselle. Why do you wish to see me alone? Je n’en vois pas la necessité!”

“Well,” said the Beau, “if I may speak without reserve, my dear cousin, I desired to drop a word of warning in your ear.”

She looked him over dispassionately. “Yes? I do not know why I must be warned, but if you wish to warn me, I am perfectly agreeable.”

“Let us say,” amended the Beau, “that I desire you to convey a warning to the person most nearly concerned. You must know that I am aware—have been aware from the outset—that you are concealing—a certain person in this house. I do not need to mention names, I am sure. Now, I wish this person no harm; in the past I think I may say that I have been very much his friend, but it will not be in my power to assist him if once his presence in this inn becomes known. And I fear—I very much fear—that it is known. You have already been a trifle discommoded, I collect, by two Runners from Bow Street. They seem, by all accounts, to have been a singularly stupid couple. But you must remember that all the Runners are not so easily—shall we say, duped?” He paused, but Eustacie, contenting herself with gazing at him blankly, said nothing. He smiled slightly, and continued: “You should consider, dear cousin, what would happen if someone who knows this person well were to go to Bow Street and say: ‘I have proof that his man is even now lying in a hidden cellar at the Red Lion at Hand Cross.’”

“You recount to me a history of the most entertaining,” said Eustacie, with painstaking civility. “I expect you would be very glad to know that Ludovic—I name names, me—had gone abroad.”

“Very glad,” replied the Beau sweetly. “I should be much distressed if he brought any more disgrace on the family by ending his career on the scaffold. And that, my dear Eustacie, is what he will do if ever he falls into the hands of the Law.”

“But I find you inexplicable!” said Eustacie. “I thought you at least believed him to be innocent.”

He shrugged. “Certainly, but his unfortunate flight, coupled with the disappearance of the talisman ring which was at the root of all the trouble, will always make it impossible for him to prove his innocence.” He put the tips of his fingers together, and over them surveyed Eustacie. “It is very disagreeable to be a hunted man, you know. It would be much better to have it given out that one had died—abroad. I am anxious to be of what assistance I can. If I had proof that my cousin Ludovic was no more, I would gladly engage to provide—well, let us say a man who looked like my cousin Ludovic but bore another name—to provide this man, then, with an allowance I believe he would not consider ungenerous.” He stopped and took a pinch of snuff.

“I ask myself,” said Eustacie meditatively, “why you should wish to overwhelm Ludovic with your generosity. It is to me not at all easy to understand.”

“Ah, that is not clever of you, dear cousin,” he replied. “Surely you must perceive the disadvantages of my situation?”

“But yes, very clearly,” said Eustacie, with disconcerting alacrity.

“Precisely,” smiled the Beau. “Of course, were there but the slimmest chance of Ludovic’s being able to prove his innocence, it would be another matter. But there is no such chance, Eustacie, and I should be a very odd sort of a creature if I did not look forward with misgiving to an indefinite number of years spent in waiting beside a vacant throne.”