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 at 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 jawbone 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!”
Miss Merriot, hovering watchfully, cast herself between them, and clung to her brother. “No, no!” she cried. “No swords, I do beseech you. Sir, you are raving! There is no girl here that I have seen.”
Mr. Merriot put his sister aside. “But wait!” he said slowly. “As I remember there was a lady in the room as I came in. A child with black hair. My sister was overwrought, sir, and maybe forgets. Yes, there was a lady.” He looked round as though he expected to see her lurking in some corner.
“Damme, it won’t serve!” cried out the infuriated Mr. Markham, and went striding off to the door that led into the taproom, calling loudly for the landlord.
Mine host came quickly, with an uneasy look in his face. In answer to Mr. Markham’s furious query he said nervously that in the scare of the fire someone had driven off with his worship’s chaise, and he doubted but that the lady was in it.
Mr. Markham swung round to face Peter Merriot again, and there came a red light into his eyes, while his hand fumbled at his sword hilt. “Ah, you’re in this!” he snarled.
Mr. Merriot paused
