The Corinthian

Chapter 9

Having got rid of Piers Luttrell, who, after peering at his watch surreptitiously, and several times looking about him as though in the expectation of seeing someone hiding amongst the trees, went off, rather relieved but much bewildered, Sir Richard walked away to rejoin Pen and the unknown lady. He found only Pen, seated on the bank with an air of aloof virtue, her hands folded primly on her knees. He paused, looking her over with a comprehending eye. “And where,” he asked in conversational tones, “is your companion?”

“She chose to go home,” responded Pen. “I dare say she grew tired of waiting for you to come back.”

“Ah, no doubt! Did you by any chance, suggest to her that she should do so?”

“No, because it was not at all necessary. She was very anxious to go. She said she wished she had not come.”

“Did she tell you why she had come?”

“No. I asked her, of course, but she is such a silly little missish thing that she would do nothing but cry, and say she was a wicked girl. Do you know what I think, Richard?”

“Probably.”

“Well, it’s my belief she came to meet someone. She seems to me exactly the sort of female who would feel romantic just because there is a full moon. Besides, why else should she be here at this hour?”

“Why indeed?” agreed Sir Richard. “I apprehend that you have little sympathy to spare for such folly?”

“None at all,” said Pen. “In fact, I think it’s silly, besides being improper.”

“You are severe!”

“I can tell by your voice that you are laughing at me. I expect you are thinking of my climbing out of a window. But I was not going to meet a lover by moonlight! Such stuff!”

“Fustian,” nodded Sir Richard. “Did she disclose the identity of her lover?”

“No, but she said her own name was Lydia Daubenay. And no sooner had she told me that than she went off into another taking, and said she was distracted, and wished she had not told me. Really, I was quite glad when she decided to go home without waiting for you.”

“Yes, I had rather gathered the impression that her company was not agreeable to you. I suppose it hardly signifies. She did not appear to me to be the kind of young woman who could be trusted to bear a still tongue in her head.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Pen thoughtfully. “She was so frightened I quite think she may not say a word about the adventure. I have been considering the matter, and it seems to me that she must be in love with someone whom her parents do not wish her to marry.”

“That,” said Sir Richard, “seems to be a fair conclusion.”

“So that I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she conceals the fact that she was in the wood to-night. By the way, was it the stammering-man?”

“It was, and Miss Daubenay was right in her suspicion: he is dead.”

Miss Creed accepted this with fortitude. “Well, if he is, I can tell you who killed him. That girl told me all over again how it happened, and there is no doubt that the other man was Captain Trimble. And he did it to get the necklace!”

“Admirable!” said Sir Richard.

“It is as plain as a pikestaff. And now that I come to think of it, it may very likely be all for the best. Of course, I am sorry for the stammering-man, but you can’t deny that he was a very disagreeable person. Besides, I know perfectly well that he was threatening you. That is why I followed you. Now we are rid of the whole affair!”

“Not quite, I fear. You must not think that I am unmoved by your heroic behaviour, but I could wish that you had gone to bed, Pen.”

“Yes, but I find that most unreasonable of you,” objected Pen. “It seems to me that you want to keep all the adventure for yourself!”

“I appreciate your feelings,” said Sir Richard, “but I would point out to you that your situation is a trifle—shall we say irregular?—and that we have been at considerable pains to excite no undue attention. Hence that abominable stage-coach. The last thing in the world I desire is to see you brought forward as a witness to this affair. If Miss Daubenay does not disclose her share in it, you may yet escape notice, but, to tell you the truth, I place little dependence on Miss Daubenay’s discretion.”

“Oh!” said Pen, digesting this. “You think there may be a little awkwardness if it should be discovered that I am not a boy? Perhaps we had better leave Queen Charlton?”

“No, that would indeed be fatal. We are now committed to this adventure. I am going to inform the local magistrate that I have discovered a corpse in this spinney. As you have encountered Miss Daubenay, upon whose discretion we have decided to place no reliance, I shall mention the fact that you accompanied me upon my evening stroll, and we must trust that no particular notice will be taken of you. By the way, brat, I think you had better become my young cousin—my remote young cousin.”

“Ah!” said Miss Creed, gratified. “My own story!”

“Your own story.”

“Well, I must say I am glad you don’t wish to run away,” she confided. “You cannot conceive how much I am enjoying myself! I dare say it is otherwise with you, but, you see, I have had such a very dull life up till now! And I’ll tell you another thing, Richard: naturally I am very anxious to find Piers, but I think we had better not send any word to him until we have finished this adventure.”

He was silent for a moment. “Are you very anxious to find Piers?” he asked at last.

“Of course I am! Why, that is why we came!”

“Very true. I was forgetting. You will see Piers to-morrow morning, I fancy.”

She got up from the bank. “I shall see him to-morrow? But how do you know?”

“I should have mentioned to you that I have just had the felicity of meeting him.”

“Piers?” she exclaimed. “Here? In the wood?”

“Over Beverley Brandon’s body.”

“I thought I heard voices! But how did he come to be here? And why didn’t you bring him to me directly?”

Sir Richard took time over his answer. “You see, I was under the impression that Miss Daubenay was still with you,” he explained.

“Oh, I see!” said Pen innocently. “Yes, indeed, you did quite right! We don’t want her to be included in our adventure. But did you tell Piers about me?”

“The moment did not seem to be propitious,” confessed Sir Richard. “I told him to come to visit me at the “George” to-morrow morning, and on no account to divulge his presence in the wood to-night.”

“What a surprise it will be to him when he finds me at the “George”!” said Pen gleefully.

“Yes,” said Sir Richard. “I think it will be—a surprise to him.”

She fell into step beside him on their way back to the road. “I am glad you did not tell him! I suppose he had come to look for the stammering-man? I can’t conceive how he could have had such a disagreeable person to visit him!”

Sir Richard, who had rarely, during the twenty-nine years of his existence, found himself at a loss, now discovered that he was totally incapable of imparting his own suspicions to his trusting companion. Apparently, it had not occurred to her that the sentiments of her old playfellow might have undergone a change; and so fixed in her mind was a five-year-old pact of betrothal that it had not entered her head to question either its durable qualities, or its desirability. She evidently considered herself plighted to Piers Luttrell, a circumstance which had no doubt had much to do with her friendly acceptance of Sir Richard’s companionship. Phrases of warning half-formed themselves in Sir Richard’s brain, and were rejected. Piers would have to do his explaining; Sir Richard could only hope that upon coming face to face with him after a lapse of years, Pen might discover that as he had outgrown a childhood’s fancy, so too had she.

They entered the George together. Pen went up to bed at a nod from Sir Richard, but Sir Richard rang the bell for a servant. A sleepy waiter came in answer to the summons, and, upon being asked for the direction of the nearest magistrate, said that Sir Jasper Luttrell was the nearest, but was away from home. He knew of no other, so Sir Richard desired him to fetch the landlord to him, and sat down to write a short note to whom it might concern.

When the landlord came into the parlour, Sir Richard was shaking the sand off the single sheet of paper. He folded it, and sealed it with a wafer, and upon being told that Mr John Philips, of Whitchurch, was the nearest available magistrate, wrote this gentleman’s name on the note. As he wrote, he said in his calm way: “I shall be obliged to you if you will have this letter conveyed directly to Mr Philips.”

“To-night, sir?”

“To-night. Mr Philips will, I imagine, come back with your messenger. If he asks for me, show him into this room. Ah, and landlord!”

“Sir?”

“A bowl of rum punch. I will mix it myself.”

“Yes, sir! Immediately, sir!” said the landlord, relieved to receive such a normal command.

He lingered for a moment, trying to summon up sufficient resolution to ask the fine London gentleman why he wanted to see a magistrate thus urgently. Sir Richard’s quizzing-glass came up, and the landlord withdrew in haste. The waiter would have followed him, but was detained by Sir Richard’s uplifted forefinger.

“One moment! Who gave you the note which you delivered to me this evening?”

“It was Jem, sir—the tapster. It was when I went up to the bar for a pint of burgundy for a gentleman dining in the coffee-room that Jem gave it to me. It was Captain Trimble who picked it up off the ground, where it was a-laying. It got swep’ off the bar, I dessay, sir, the taproom being crowded at the time, and Jem with his hands full.”

“Thank you,” said Sir Richard. “That is all.”

The waiter went away considerably mystified. Sir Richard, on the other hand, felt that the mystery had been satisfactorily explained, and sat down to await the landlord’s return with the ingredients for a bowl of punch.

Mr Philips’ residence was situated some five miles from Queen Charlton, and it was consequently some time before the clatter of horses’ hooves in the street heralded his arrival. Sir Richard was squeezing the lemon into the punch bowl when he was ushered into the parlour, and looked up fleetingly to say: “Ah, how do you do? Mr Philips, I apprehend?”

Mr Philips was a grizzled gentleman with a harassed frown, and a slight paunch.

“Your servant, sir! Have I the honour of addressing Sir Richard Wyndham?”

“Mine, sir, is the honour,” said Sir Richard absently, intent upon his punch.

“Sir,” said Mr Philips, “your very extraordinary communication—I may say, your unprecedented disclosure—has, as you perceive, brought me immediately to enquire into this incredible affair!”

“Very proper,” said Sir Richard. “You will wish to visit the scene of the crime, I imagine. I can give you the direction, but no doubt the village constable is familiar with the locality. The body, Mr Philips, is—or was—lying in the clearing in the middle of the spinney, a little way down the road.”

“Do you mean to tell me, sir, that this story is true?” demanded the magistrate.

“Certainly it is true. Dear me, did you suppose me to be so heartless as to drag you out at this hour on a fool’s errand? Are you in favour of adding the juice of one or of two lemons?”

Mr Philips, whose eyes had been critically observing Sir Richard’s proceedings, said, without thinking: “One! One is enough!”

“I feel sure you are right,” said Sir Richard.

“You know, sir, I must ask you some questions about this extraordinary affair!” said Philips, recollecting his errand.

“So you shall, sir, so you shall. Would you like to ask them now, or after you have disposed of the body?”

“I shall first repair to the scene of the murder,” declared Philips.

“Good!” said Sir Richard. “I will engage to have the punch ready against your return.”

Mr Philips felt that this casual way of treating the affair was quite out of order, but the prospect of returning to a bowl of hot rum punch was so agreeable that he decided to overlook any trifling irregularity. When he returned to the inn, half an hour later, he was feeling chilled, for it was now past midnight and he had not taken his overcoat with him. Sir Richard had caused a fire to be kindled in the wainscoted parlour, and from the bowl on the table, which he was stirring with a long-handled spoon, there arose a very fragrant and comforting aroma. Mr Philips rubbed his hands together, and could not refrain from ejaculating: “Ha!”

Sir Richard looked up, and smiled. His smile had won more hearts than Mr Philips’, and it had a visible effect on that gentleman.

“Well, well, well! I won’t deny that’s a very welcome smell, Sir Richard! A fire, too! Upon my word, I’m glad to see it! Gets chilly at night, very chilly! A bad business, sir! a very bad business!”

Sir Richard ladled the steaming brew into two glasses, and gave one to the magistrate. “Draw up a chair to the fire, Mr Philips. It is, as you say, a very bad business. I should tell you that I am intimately acquainted with the family of the deceased.”

Mr Philips fished Sir Richard’s note out of his pocket. “Yes, yes, just as I supposed, sir. I do not know how you would otherwise have furnished me with the poor man’s name. You know him, in fact. Precisely! He was travelling in your company, perhaps?”

“No,” said Sir Richard, taking a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. “He was staying with a friend who lives in the neighbourhood. The name was, I think, Luttrell.”

“Indeed! This becomes more and more—But pray continue, sir! You were not, then, together?”

“No, nothing of the sort. I came into the west country in family affairs. I need not burden you with them, I think.”

“Quite, quite! Family affairs: yes! Go on, sir! How came you to discover Mr Brandon’s body?”

“Oh, by accident! But it will be better, perhaps, if I recount my share in this affair from its start.”

“Certainly! Yes! Pray do so, sir! This is a remarkably good bowl of punch, I may say.”

“I am generally thought to have something of a knack with a punch bowl,” bowed Sir Richard. “To go back, then, to the start! You have no doubt heard, Mr Philips, of the Brandon diamonds?”

From the startled expression in the magistrate’s eyes, and the slight dropping of his jaw, it was apparent that he had not. He said: “Diamonds? Really, I fear—No, I must confess that I had not heard of the Brandon diamonds.”

“Then, I should explain that they make up a certain famous necklace, worth, I dare say, anything you like.”

“Upon my word! An heirloom! Yes, yes, but in what way—”

“While on my way to Bristol with a young relative of mine, a slight accident befell our coach, and we were forced to put up for the night at a small inn near Wroxhall. There, sir, I encountered an individual who seemed to me—but I am not very well-versed in these matters—a somewhat questionable character. How questionable I did not know until the following morning, when a Bow Street Runner arrived at the inn.”

“Good God, sir! This is the most—But I interrupt you!”

“Not at all,” said Sir Richard politely. “I left the inn while the Runner was interrogating this individual. It was not until my young cousin and I had proceeded some way on our journey that I discovered in my pocket a purse containing the Brandon necklace.”

The magistrate sat bolt upright in his chair. “You amaze me, sir! You astonish me! The necklace in your pocket? Really, I do not know what to say!”

“No,” agreed Sir Richard, rising and refilling his guest’s glass. “I was rather taken aback myself. In fact, it was some time before I could think how it came to be there.”

“No wonder, no wonder! Most understandable, indeed! You recognized the necklace?”

“Yes,” said Sir Richard, returning to his chair. “I recognized it, but—really, I am amazed at my own stupidity!—I did not immediately connect it with the individual encountered near Wroxhall. The question was then not so much how it came, to be in my possession, as how to restore it to Lord Saar with the least possible delay. I could picture Lady Saar’s dismay at such an irreparable loss! Ah—a lady of exquisite sensibility, you understand!”

The magistrate nodded his comprehension. The rum punch was warming him quite as much as the fire, and he had a not unpleasant sensation of mixing with exalted persons.

“Happily—or perhaps I should say, in the light of future events, unhappily,” continued Sir Richard, “I recalled that Beverley Brandon—he was Saar’s younger son, I should mention—was staying in this neighbourhood. I repaired instantly to this inn, therefore, and, being fortunate enough to meet Brandon just beyond the village, gave the necklace to him without further ado.”

The magistrate set down his glass. “You gave the necklace to him? Did he know that it had been stolen?”

“By no means. He was as astonished as I was, but engaged himself to restore it immediately to his father. I considered the matter satisfactorily settled—Saar, you know, having the greatest dislike of any kind of notoriety, such as must accrue from the theft, and the subsequent proceedings.”

“Sir!” said Mr Philips, “do you mean to imply that this unfortunate young man was murdered for the sake of the necklace?”

“That,” said Sir Richard, “is what I fear may have happened.”

“But this is shocking! Upon my word, sir, I am quite dumbfounded!—what—who can have known that the necklace was in his possession?”

“I should have said that no one could have known it, but, upon consideration, I imagine that the individual who hid it in my pocket may well have followed me to this place, waiting for an opportunity to get it back into his possession.”

“True! very true! You have been spied upon! Yet you have not seen that man in Queen Charlton?”

“Do you think he would—er—let me see him?” enquired Sir Richard, evading this question.

“No. No, indeed! Certainly not! But this must be looked to!”

“Yes,” agreed Sir Richard, pensively swinging his eyeglass on the end of its ribbon. “And I think you might, with advantage, look to the sudden disappearance from this inn of a flashy person calling himself Captain Trimble, Mr Philips.”

“Really, sir! This becomes more and more—Pray, what reason have you for supposing that this man may be implicated in the murder?”

“Well,” said Sir Richard slowly, “some chance words which I let fall on the subject of—ah—waistcoats, sent Captain Trimble off hot-foot to Bristol.”

The magistrate blinked, and directed an accusing glance towards his half-empty glass. A horrid suspicion that the rum punch had affected his understanding was dispelled, however, by Sir Richard’s next words.

“My acquaintance at the inn near Wroxhall wore a catskin waistcoat. A casual reference to this circumstance had the surprising effect of arousing the Captain’s curiosity. He asked me in what direction the man in the catskin waistcoat had been travelling, and upon my saying that I believed him to be bound for Bristol, he left the inn—er—incontinent.”

“I see! yes, yes, I see! An accomplice!”

“My own feeling,” said Sir Richard, “is that he was an accomplice who had been—er—bubbled.”

The magistrate appeared to be much struck by this. “Yes! I see it all! Good God, this is a terrible affair! I have never been called upon to—But you say this Captain Trimble went off to Bristol, sir?”

“He did. But I have since learned, Mr Philips, that he was back at this inn at six o’clock this evening. Ah! I should, I see, say yesterday evening,” he added with a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece.

Mr Philips drew a long breath. “Your disclosures, Sir Richard, open up—are in fact, of such a nature as to—Upon my word, I never thought—But the murder! You discovered this, sir?”

“I discovered Brandon’s body,” corrected Sir Richard. “How came you to do this, sir? You had a suspicion? You—”

“None at all. It was a warm evening, and I stepped out to enjoy a stroll in the moonlight. Chance alone led my footsteps to the wood where I found my unfortunate young friend’s body. It is only since making that melancholy discovery that I have pieced together the—er—evidence.”

Mr Philips had a hazy idea that chance had played an over-important part in Sir Richard’s adventures, but he was aware that the punch he had drunk had slightly clouded his intellect. He said guardedly: “Sir, the story you have unfolded is of a nature which—in short, it must be carefully sifted. Yes, indeed. Carefully sifted! I must request you not to remove from this neighbourhood until I have had time—pray do not misunderstand me! There is not the least suggestion, I assure you, of—”

“My dear sir, I don’t misunderstand you, and I have no intention of removing from this inn,” said Sir Richard soothingly. “I am aware that you have, so far, only my word for it that I am indeed Richard Wyndham.”

“Oh, as to that, I am sure—no suggestion of disbelieving—But my duty is prescribed! You will appreciate my position, I am persuaded!”

“Perfectly!” said Sir Richard. “I shall hold myself wholly at your disposal. You, as a man of the world, will, I am assured, appreciate the need of the exercise of—ah—the most delicate discretion in handling this affair.”

Mr Philips, who had once spent three weeks in London, was flattered to think that the imprint of that short sojourn was pronounced enough to be discernible to such a personage as Beau Wyndham, and swelled with pride. Native caution, however, warned him that his investigation had better be postponed to a more sober moment. He rose to his feet with careful dignity, and set his empty glass down on the table. “I am obliged to you!” he pronounced. “I shall wait upon you to-morrow—no, to-day! I must consider this affair. A terrible business! I think one may say, a terrible business!”

Sir Richard agreed to this, and after a meticulous exchange of courtesies, Mr Philips took his leave. Sir Richard snuffed the candles, and went up to bed, not dissatisfied with his night’s work.

In the morning, Pen was first down. The day was fine, and her cravat, she flattered herself, very well tied. There was a suggestion of a prance about her gait as she sallied forth to inspect the weather. Sir Richard, no believer in early rising, had ordered breakfast for nine o’clock, and it was as yet only eight. A maid-servant was engaged in sweeping the floor of the private parlour, and a bored waiter was spreading clean cloths over the tables in the coffee-room. As Pen passed through the entrance-parlour, the landlord, who was conversing in low tones with a gentleman unknown to her, looked round, and exclaimed: “Here is the young gentleman himself, sir!”

Mr Philips, confronted with the biggest crime ever committed within the limits of his jurisdiction, had perhaps imbibed too strong a brew of rum punch on the previous evening, but he was a zealous person, and, in spite of awaking with a very bad head, he had lost no time in getting out of his comfortable bed, and riding back to Queen Charlton to continue his investigations. As Pen paused, he stepped forward, and bade her a civil good-morning. She responded, wishing that Sir Richard would come downstairs; and upon Mr Philips’ asking her, in a tone of kindly patronage, whether she was Sir Richard’s young cousin, assented, and hoped that the magistrate would not ask for her name.

He did not. He said: “Now, you were with Sir Richard when he discovered this very shocking crime, were you not, young man?”

“Well, not precisely,” said Pen.

“Oh? How is that?”

“I was, and I wasn’t,” Pen explained, with an earnestness which robbed the words of flippancy. “I didn’t see the body.”

“No? Just tell me exactly what happened. No need to feel any alarm, you know! If you walked out with your cousin, how came you to have separated?”

“Well, sir, there was an owl,” confided Pen unblushingly.

“Come, come! An owl?”

“Yes: my cousin said that too.”

“Said what?”

“Come, come! He is not interested in bird-life.”

“Ah, I see! You collect eggs, eh? That’s it, is it?”

“Yes, and also I like to watch birds.”

Mr Philips smiled tolerantly. He wondered how old this slim boy was, and thought it a pity the young fellow should be so effeminate; but he was a country man himself, and dimly he could recall the bird-watching days of his youth. “Yes, yes, I understand! You went off on your own to try to catch a glimpse of this owl: well, I have done the same in my time! And so you were not with your good cousin when he reached the clearing in the wood?”

“No, but I met him on his return, and of course he told me what he had found.”

“I dare say, but hearsay, my boy, is not evidence,” said Mr Philips, nodding dismissal.

Pen made for the door, feeling that she had extricated herself from a difficult situation with aplomb. The landlord ran after her with a sealed letter. “If I was not forgetting! I beg pardon, sir, but a young person brought this for you not an hour ago. Leastways, it was for a young gentleman of the name of Wyndham. Would that be in mistake for yourself, sir?”

Pen took the letter, and looked at it with misgiving. “A young person?” she repeated.

“Well, sir, it was one of the servant-girls from Major Daubenay’s.”

“Oh!” said Pen. “Oh, very well! Thank you!”

She passed out into the village street, and after dubiously regarding the direction on the note, which was to—“Wyndham Esq.,” and written in a round schoolgirl’s hand, she broke the seal, and spread open the single sheet.

“Dear Sir,” the letter began, primly enough, “The Unfortunate Being whom you befriended last night, is in Desperate Case, and begs that you will come to the little orchard next to the road at eight o’clock punctually, because it is vital that I should have Private Speech with you. Do not fail. Your obliged servant,

“Lydia Daubenay.”

It was plain that Miss Daubenay had written this missive in considerable agitation. Greatly intrigued, Pen enquired the way to Major Daubenay’s house of a baker’s boy, and set off down the dusty road.

By the time she had reached the appointed rendezvous it was half-past eight, and Miss Daubenay was pacing up and down impatiently. A thick, high hedge shut the orchard off from sight of the house, and a low wall enclosed it from the road. Pen climbed on to this without much difficulty, and was greeted by an instant accusation: “Oh, you are so late! I have been waiting ages!”

“Well, I am sorry, but I came as soon as I had read your letter,” said Pen, jumping down into the orchard. “Why do you wish to see me?”

Miss Daubenay wrung her hands, and uttered in tense accents: “Everything has gone awry. I am quite distracted! I don’t know what to do!”

Pen betrayed no particular solicitude at this moving speech, but critically looked Miss Daubenay over.

She was a pretty child, about the same age as Pen herself, but shorter, and much plumper. She had a profusion of nut-brown ringlets, a pair of fawn-like brown eyes, and a soft rosebud of a mouth. She was dressed in a white muslin dress, high-waisted, and frilled about the ankles, and with a great many-pale-blue bows of ribbon with long fluttering ends. She raised her melting eyes to Pen’s face, and breathed: “Can I trust you?”

Miss Creed was a literal-minded female, and instead of responding with promptness and true chivalry, she replied cautiously: “Well, probably you can, but I am not sure till I know what it is that you want.”

Miss Daubenay seemed a little daunted for a moment, and said in a soft moan: “I am in such a taking! I have been very, very silly!”

Pen found no difficulty in believing this. She said: “Well, don’t stand there wringing your hands! Let us sit down under that tree.”

Lydia looked doubtful. “Will it not be damp?”

“No, of course not! Besides, what if it were?”

“Oh, the grass might stain my dress!”

“It seems to me,” said Pen severely, “that if you are bothering about your dress you cannot be in such great trouble.”

“Oh, but I am!” said Lydia, sinking down on to the turf, and clasping her hands at her bosom. “I do not know what you will say, or what you will think of me! I must have been mad! Only you were kind to me last night, and I thought I could trust you!”

“I dare say you can,” said Pen. “But I wish you will tell me what is the matter, because I have not yet had any breakfast, and—”

“If I had thought that you would be so unsympathetic I would never, never have sent for you!” declared Lydia in tremulous accents.

“Well, it is very difficult to be sympathetic when a person will do nothing but wring her hands, and say the sort of things there really is no answer to,” said Pen reasonably. “Do start at the beginning!”

Miss Daubenay bowed her head. “I am the most unhappy creature alive!” she announced. “I have the misfortune to be secretly betrothed to one whom my father will not tolerate.”

“Yes, I thought you were. I suppose you went to meet him in the wood last night?”

“Alas, it is true! But do not judge me hastily! He is the most unexceptionable—the most—”

“If he is unexceptionable,” interrupted Pen, “why won’t your father tolerate him?”

“It is all wicked prejudice!” sighed Lydia. “My father quarrelled with his father, and they don’t speak.”

“Oh! What did they quarrel about?”

“About a piece of land,” said Lydia mournfully.

“It sounds very silly.”

“It is silly. Only they are perfectly serious about it, and they do not care a fig for our sufferings! We have been forced to this hateful expedient of meeting in secret. I should tell you that my betrothed is the soul of honour! Subterfuge is repugnant to him, but what can we do? We love each other!”

“Why don’t you run away?” suggested Pen practically.

Startled eyes leapt to hers. “Run where?”

“To Gretna Green, of course.”

“Oh, I could not! Only think of the scandal!”

“I do think you should try not to be so poor-spirited. However, I dare say you can’t help it.”

“You are the rudest boy I ever met!” exclaimed Lydia, “I declare I wish I had not sent for you!”

“So do I, because this seems to me a silly story, and not in the least my concern,” said Pen frankly. “Oh, pray don’t start to cry! There, I am sorry! I didn’t mean to be unkind! But why did you send for me?”

“Because, though you are rude and horrid, you did not seem to me like other young men, and I thought you would understand, and not take advantage of me.”

Pen gave a sudden mischievous chuckle. “I shan’t do that, at all events! Oh dear, I am getting so hungry! Do tell me why you sent for me!”

Miss Daubenay dabbed her eyes with a wisp of a handkerchief. “I was so distracted last night I scarce knew what I was doing! And when I reached home, the most dreadful thing happened! Papa saw me! Oh, sir, he accused me of having gone out to meet P—to meet my betrothed, and said I should be packed off again to Bath this very day, to stay with my Great-Aunt Augusta. The horridest, most disagreeable old woman! Nothing but backgammon, and spying, and everything of the most hateful! Sir, I felt myself to be in desperate case! Indeed, I said it before I had time to recollect the consequences!”

“Said what?” asked Pen, patient but bored.

Miss Daubenay bowed her head again. “That it was not—not that man I had gone to meet, but another, whom I had met in Bath, when I was sent to Great-Aunt Augusta to—to cure me of what Papa called my infatuation! I said I had been in the habit of meeting this other man c-clandestinely, because I thought that would make Papa afraid to send me back to Bath, and might perhaps even reconcile him to the Real Man.”

“Oh!” said Pen doubtfully. “And did it?”

“No! He said he did not believe me.”

“Well, I must say I’m not surprised at that’

“Yes, but in the end he did, and now I wish I had never said it. He said if there was Another Man, who was it?”

“You ought to have thought of that. He was bound to ask that question, and you must have looked very silly when you could not answer.”

“But I did answer!” whispered Miss Daubenay, apparently overcome.

“But how could you, if there wasn’t another man?”

“I said it was you!” said Miss Daubenay despairingly.