“Certainly he is,” said Vincent, who had unfortunately come out of the library at that moment. “Claud, my dear coz, likes nothing better than to preen himself under the admiring gaze of the local population. Don’t try to deter him! So much endeavour deserves some recognition, after all, and when he goes on the strut in London he can never be perfectly sure that the attention he attracts is as admiring as he hoped it would be.”

Since he had, with his usual acumen, stated the exact truth, Claud was roused to fury, and would have favoured him with some pithy criticisms of the style he had chosen to affect that morning had not Hugo intervened, saying, as he gently but irresistibly thrust him out of the house: “Nay, if you start a flight we shan’t get to Rye at all!”

Fuming, Claud climbed up into the waiting curricle, the reins gathered in one elegantly gloved hand; Hugo got up beside him; Claud told the groom to stand away from the heads of the staid pair of horses borrowed from his grandfather’s stable, and drove off, sped on his way by an earnest entreaty from Vincent, who had strolled out of the house to watch his departure, not to put his cousin in the ditch. This shaft, however, fell wide of the target, for Claud, though by no means a Nonesuch, was well able to handle the reins in form. He instantly proved this by taking the first bend in the avenue in style, a feat which quite restored him to good-humour, since he knew Vincent to be watching him.

The road to Rye was rough, the post-road being in almost as bad a state of repair as the lane which led to it, but the journey was accomplished without mishap; and in rather less than an hour the curricle-and-pair had passed through the massive Land gate, climbed the East Cliff, and was proceeding circumspectly along the narrow, cobbled High Street to the George Inn. Here Claud gave the equipage into the charge of an ostler, for although Vincent would have unerringly negotiated the difficult turn into the yard, he wisely preferred to run no risk either of scraping his grandfather’s curricle or of creating a bad impression on those inhabitants of the town who happened to be passing at the time.

Having bespoken a luncheon at the George, he led Hugo off to show him the town, but it rapidly became apparent to Hugo that his chief object was to give the town every opportunity to see him. It was also apparent that his was a known and welcome figure in Rye, for his dawdling progress down the High Street was attended by much doffing of hats, many bobbed curtsies, and as many awed stares as would have been bent upon the Prince Regent. He responded with great affability to greetings, acknowledged respectful bows graciously, magnificently ignored a following of less respectful small boys, and ogled every passable female through his quizzing-glass. It was evident that the citizens of Rye regarded him in the light of a raree-show, but if broad grins decorated male countenances, it was seldom that the female population failed to gratify him by taking in every detail of his attire with rapt eyes of admiration. Long before the bottom of The Mint had been reached, Hugo was moved to protest, which he did in blunt terms, informing Claud that he was not one who liked to be stared at, and would part company with his cousin unless he stopped behaving as though he were the chief exhibit in a procession.

“Why, I thought you wanted to see the town!” said Claud, rather hurt.

“Ay, so I do, but at this rate it will be time to have the horses put to before we’ve seen aught but one street. Nay then, lad, stop making an April-gowk of yourself, or we’ll have all the boys in the town at our heels!”

Claud, perceiving that the Major had every intention of propelling him along the street, averted the danger of having his coat-sleeve crushed by the grip of that large hand by quickening his pace. He complained, in an injured tone, that he would never have come down The Mint at all if he had not thought it his duty to show his cousin the Strand Gate; but when they reached the bottom of The Mint there was no gate to be seen, and, after a surprised moment, he suddenly remembered that it had been demolished a couple of years previously.

“Pity, because I daresay you’d have liked it,” he said. “Don’t come down here often myself, which accounts for my having forgotten they’d pulled it down. However, it don’t signify! We’ll stroll up Mermaid Street, and I’ll show you the old coaching-house. Shouldn’t think they’ve pulled that down, though it ain’t used any longer. Do you remember what we were saying t’other night, about the Hawkhurst Gang? Well, they’ll tell you here it was one of their kens. Used to stamp in, as bold as Beauchamp, and sit there, boozing and sluicing, with their pistols and cutlasses on the table in front of them. Enough to put up the shutters then and there, you’d think, but I rather fancy it went on being an inn for a good few years. Yes, and I’ll tell you another interesting thing about Mermaid Street,” he added, after a moment’s mental research. “At least, I think it was in Mermaid Street. House at the top, anyway. Fellow had a knife stuck into him. Seems to have made the devil of a stir at the time.” He paused, frowning. “Now I come to think of it, I fancy it happened in the churchyard, but I’m pretty sure they found the poor fellow in the house. Bled to death.”

“Who was it? Did they discover the murderer?”

“Yes, they did all right and tight. I rather fancy he was a butcher, or some such thing, who had a grudge against the Mayor.”

“No wonder it made a stir!” remarked—Hugo.

“Yes, but I’ve a notion it wasn’t the Mayor who was stabbed, but some other fellow. I’ve forgotten just how it was, but I do know they hanged the butcher on Gibbet Marsh, above the Tillingham Sluice. Kept his body in an iron cage there for a matter of fifty years. I never saw it myself, because they took it down before I was born, but m’father says it used to be quite a landmark.”

This engaging anecdote ended his account of Rye’s history, the rest of his conversation, as he picked his way between the ruts and channels of Mermaid Street, being confined to bitter animadversions on the shocking condition of the road. None of the streets that led up to the top of the hill were paved, and as they were very steep, every heavy fall of rain played havoc with their surfaces. By the time he had reached the Mermaid Inn, Claud, whose beautiful Hessians were not meant for rough walking, was a good deal ruffled; and when he discovered a serious scratch on the shining leather he came near to losing his temper. “It’s no use asking me how old the place is, because I don’t know, and what’s more I dashed well don’t care!” he said testily. “Don’t stand there gaping at it! Just look at this boot of mine! Do you realize I’ve only had this pair a couple of months? Now they’re ruined, all because nothing will do for you but to go prowling about this ramshackle town!”

“I shouldn’t worry,” said Hugo, with only the most cursory glance at the damaged boot. “I daresay Polyphant will know what to do. Can we get into this place?”

“No, we can’t, and as for not worrying, anyone can see you wouldn’t, but I’ll have you to know—” He stopped, suddenly, and, as Hugo turned his head to look enquiringly at him, ejaculated in an altered tone: “By Jupiter, I believe that’s—No, it ain’t, though!—Yes, by Jupiter, it is!”

With this disjointed utterance he made his way across the street, sweeping off his hat, and executing a superb bow to a blushing damsel in a print dress, and a straw bonnet tied over a mop of yellow curls, who was coming down the street with a basket over one mittened arm. “La, Mr. Darracott, to think of meeting you!” she said coyly, dropping him a curtsy. “And me on my way to the chandler’s, never dreaming you was in the town! Well, I do declare!”

“Allow me to carry your basket!” begged Claud gallantly.

“How can you, Mr. Darracott? As though I’d think of such a thing!”

“At least you won’t refuse me the pleasure of escorting you!” said Claud.

Perceiving that the lady had no intention of refusing him this pleasure, the Major seized the opportunity to make good his escape, tolerably confident that Claud would be happily engaged in flirtation for some time to come. The yellow-haired charmer spoke in far from refined accents, but the Major felt no surprise at his elegant cousin’s effusive behaviour, for he had discovered Claud two days previously, trysting with the blacksmith’s pretty daughter. Claud’s disposition was mildly amorous, but as he was terrified of falling a victim to a matchmaking mama, he rarely attempted to flirt with girls of his own order, indulging instead in a form of innocuous dalliance (which made his more robust brother feel very unwell) with chambermaids, milliners’ apprentices, village maidens, or, in fact, any personable young female of humble origin who was ready to encourage his attentions without for a moment imagining that those were serious.

So the Major deserted him with a clear conscience, and explored the town by himself. At the end of Watchbell Street he fell into conversation with a venerable citizen, who gave him much interesting information about Rye’s history, not all of which was apocryphal, and directed him to the Flushing Inn, which was the scene of the murderous butcher’s last drink before his execution. The Major thanked him, but preferred to visit the church, after which he wandered on until he found himself at the end of the town, in front of the ancient Ypres Tower, which provided Rye with its jail. Close by it the town-wall had been breached to allow those wishing to reach the quay below to do so by way of the Baddyng Steps. The Major walked towards the steps, and reached them just as Lieutenant Ottershaw arrived, somewhat out of breath, at the top of them.