These Old Shades

alarm, while now there was no sign of her. With characteristic impetuosity he went headlong down the road in pursuit of the coach, never stopping to consider the wisdom of returning to the stables for his horse. Full-tilt he went, hatless, with torn ruffles, and wig askew. The coach was out of sight, but he ran on until he was blown. Then he dropped into a walk. When he had got his breath back he ran again, and had a grin for the comic figure he knew he must be cutting. He had no idea who had seized Leonie, or why, but he felt certain that she was in that coach. His fighting spirit was aroused, and, incidentally, his love of adventure: he determined to catch the coach if it cost him his life. So, alternately running and walking, he came at last to the straggling village, three miles distant, and, seeing the first cottage, broke once more into a weary jog-trot.

The blacksmith was working in his yard, and looked up in astonishment as Rupert’s well-known figure approached.

“Hey, there!” Rupert panted. “A coach—passed this way. Where went—it?”

The smithy rose and touched his forelock.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Devil take you! The coach!”

“Yes, my lord, yes,” said the puzzled smith.

“Did—it—pass here?” demanded Rupert in stentorian tones.

Light broke upon the smith.

“Why, yes, your lordship, and stopped at the Arms. ’Tis gone this twenty minutes.”

“Curse it! Whither?”

The smith shook his head.

“Beg pardon, your lordship, but I was not watching.”

“You’re a fool,” said Rupert, and plodded on.

The landlord of the Avon Arms was more communicative. He came bustling out to meet his young lordship, and threw up his hands at sight of him.

“My lord! Why, your lordship has lost his hat! Your coat, sir——”

“Never mind my coat,” said Rupert. “Where went that coach?”

“The French gentleman’s coach, sir?”

Rupert had collapsed on to the settle, but he sat bolt upright now.

“French? French? So that’s it, is it? Oho, M. le Comte! But what the deuce does he want with Leonie?”

The landlord looked at him sympathetically, and waited for him to explain.

“Ale!” said Rupert, sinking back again. “And a horse, and a pistol.”

The landlord was more perplexed than ever, but he went off to fetch ale in a large tankard. Rupert disposed of it speedily, and drew a deep breath.

“Did the coach stop here?” he demanded. “Did you see my brother’s ward in it?”

“Mistress Leonie, my lord? No, indeed! The French gentleman did not alight. He was in a mighty hurry, sir, seemingly.”

“Scoundrel!” Rupert shook his fist, scowling.

Mr. Fletcher retreated a pace.

“Not you, fool,” said Rupert. “What did the coach stop for?”

“Why, sir, the reckoning was not paid, and the moossoo had left his valise. The servant jumps off the box, comes running in here to settle the reckoning with me, snatches up the valise, and was out of the place before I’d time to fetch my breath. They’re queer people, these Frenchies, my lord, for there was me never dreaming the gentleman proposed to leave to-day. Driving hell for leather, they was, too, and as good a team of horses as ever I see.”

“Rot his black soul!” fumed Rupert. “The devil’s in it now, and no mistake. A horse, Fletcher, a horse!”

“Horse, sir?”

“Burn it, would I want a cow? Horse, man, and quickly!”

“But, my lord——”

“Be hanged to your buts! Go find me a horse and a pistol!”

“But, my lord, I’ve no riding horses here! Farmer Giles hath a cob, but——”

“No horse? Damme, it’s disgraceful! Go and fetch the animal the smith’s shoeing now! Away with you!”

“But, my lord, that is Mr. Manvers’ horse, and——”

“Devil take Mr. Manvers! Here, I’ll go myself! No, stay ! A pistol, man.”

The landlord was upset.

“My lord, it’s a touch of the sun must have got into your head!”

“Sun at this time of the year?” roared Rupert, thoroughly exasperated. “Go find me a pistol, sirrah!”

“Yes, my lord, yes!” said Fletcher, and retreated in haste.

Rupert set off down the road to the blacksmith’s, and found him whistling to himself as he worked.

“Coggin! Coggin, I say!”

The blacksmith paused.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Hurry with that shoe, my man! I want the horse.”

Coggin stared, open-mouthed.

“But—but ’tis not one of his Grace’s horses, sir——”

“Tare an’ ouns, would his Grace own such a brute? Do ye take me for a fool?”

“But ’tis Mr. Manvers’ roan, your lordship!”

“I don’t care if ’tis the devil’s own chestnut!” cried Rupert. “I want it, and that’s enough! How long before you have that shoe on?”

“Why, sir, twenty minutes, or maybe longer.”

“A guinea for you if you hasten!” Rupert searched in his pockets and produced two crowns. “And ask it of Fletcher,” he added, stowing the crowns away again. “Don’t sit staring at me, man! Hammer that shoe on, or I’ll take the hammer to knock sense into your head withal! Stap me if I won’t!”

Thus adjured, the smith set to with a will.

“The groom’s walked on to Fawley Farm, my lord,” he ventured presently. “What will your honour have me say to him when he comes back?”

“Tell him to present Lord Rupert Alastair’s compliments to Mr. Manvers—who the devil is Mr. Manvers?—and thank him for the loan of his horse.” Rupert walked round the animal, inspecting its points. “Horse, is it? Cow-hocked bag of bones! A man’s no right to own a scarecrow like this! You hear me, Coggin?”

“Yes, my lord. Certainly, sir!”

“Hurry with that shoe, then, and fetch the animal up to the Arms.” Away went Rupert up the road again to the inn, where he found Fletcher awaiting him with a large pistol.

“’Tis loaded, sir,” Fletcher warned him. “Indeed, my lord, and are you sure your lordship is well?”

“Never mind! Which way did the coach go?”

“Making for Portsmouth, sir, as I judge. But surely to goodness your lordship isn’t of a mind to chase it?”

“What else, fool? I want a hat. Produce me one.”

Fletcher resigned himself to the inevitable.

“If your lordship would condescend to take my Sunday beaver——”

“Ay, ’twill suffice. Make out the reckoning and I’ll pay—er—when I return. Damn that fellow Coggin! Will he be all night at his work? They’ve nigh on an hour’s start of me already!”

But Coggin came presently, leading the roan. Rupert stowed his pistol away in the saddle holster, tightened the girths, and sprang into the saddle. The smith gave vent to a last appeal.

“My lord, Mr. Manvers is a testy gentleman, and indeed——”

“To hell with Mr. Manvers, I’m sick of the fellow!” said Rupert, and rode off at a canter.

The borrowed horse was no fiery charger, as Rupert soon discovered. It cherished its own ideas as to a suitable pace to maintain, and managed to do so for the most part, to its own satisfaction and Rupert’s disgust. Thus it was close on four in the afternoon when he came at last into Portsmouth, and both he and his mount were very weary.

He rode at once to the quay, and learned that the private schooner anchored there for the past three days