“I’m not selling, though I intended to ask you to keep her, if—”
A quick pressure on his arm arrested him.
“That will do! I’m too heavy for her anyway.”
“So was that devil of a groom you put on her.”
“Ay. I’m a fool.”
“I always knew that.”
“Whisht now, Jack! Ye’ll have to take one of my nags while she heals, if ye won’t stay with us. Can ye trust her to me for a week, do ye suppose?”
“I don’t know. It seems as though I must—oh, I retract, I retract. You are altogether too large, the day is too hot, and my cravat too nicely tied—Egad, Miles! I wish—oh, I wish we were boys again, and—Yes. When may I see your son and heir?”
“Sure, ye may come now and find Molly, who’ll be aching for the sight of you. Afther you, Sir Anthony Ferndale, Bart!”
XI
My Lord Turns Rescuer and Comes Nigh Ending His Life
Late that afternoon Carstares left Thurze House on one of his friend’s horses. He waved a very regretful farewell to O’Hara and his lady, promising to let them know his whereabouts and to visit them again soon. O’Hara had extracted a solemn promise that if ever he got into difficulties he would let him know:
“For I’m not letting ye drift gaily out of me life again, and that’s flat.”
Jack had assented gladly enough—to have a friend once more was such bliss—and had given Miles the name of the inn and the village where he would find him, for O’Hara had insisted on bringing the mare over himself. So Carstares rode off to Trencham and to Jim, with the memory of a very hearty handshake in his mind. He smiled a little as he thought of his friend’s words when he had shown himself reluctant to give the required promise:
“Ye obstinate young devil, ye’ll do as I say, and no nonsense, or ye don’t leave this house!”
For six years no one had ordered him to obey; it had been he who had done all the ordering. Somehow it was very pleasant to be told what to do, especially by Miles.
He turned down a lane and wondered what Jim was thinking. That he was waiting at the Green Man, he was certain, for those had been his orders. He was annoyed with the man over the incident of the pistols, for he had inspected them and discovered that they were indeed unloaded. Had his captor been other than O’Hara, on whom he could not fire, such carelessness might have proved his undoing. Apart from that, culpable negligence always roused his wrath. A rather warm twenty minutes was in store for Salter.
For quite an hour Carstares proceeded on his way with no mishaps nor adventures, and then, suddenly, as he rounded a corner of a deserted road—little more than a cart-track—an extraordinary sight met his eyes. In the middle of the road stood a coach, and by it, covering the men on the box with two large pistols, was a seedy-looking ruffian, while two others were engaged in what appeared to be a life-and-death struggle at the coach-door.
Jacked reined-in his horse and rose in his stirrups to obtain a better view. Then his eyes flashed, and he whistled softly to himself. For the cause of all the turmoil was a slight, graceful girl of not more than nineteen or twenty. She was frenziedly resisting the efforts of her captors to drag her to another coach, further up the road. Jack could see that she was dark and very lovely.
Another, elderly lady, was most valiantly impeding operations by clawing and striking at one of the men’s arms, scolding and imploring all in one breath. Jack’s gaze went from her to a still, silent figure at the side of the road in the shadow of the hedge, evidently the stage-manager. “It seems I must take a hand in this,” he told himself, and laughed joyously as he fixed on his mask and dismounted. He tethered his mount to a young sapling, took a pistol from its holster, and ran softly and swiftly under the lea of the hedge up to the scene of disaster, just as the man who covered the unruly and vociferous pair on the box made ready to fire.
Jack’s bullet took him neatly in the neck, and without a sound he crumpled up, one of his pistols exploding harmlessly as it fell to earth.
With an oath the silent onlooker wheeled round to face the point of my lord’s gleaming blade.
Carstares drew in his breath sharply in surprise as he saw the white face of his Grace of Andover.
“Damn you!” said Tracy calmly, and sprang back, whipping out his own rapier.
“Certainly,” agreed Jack pleasantly. “On guard, M. le Duc!”
Tracy’s lips curled back in a snarl. His eyes were almost shut. Over his shoulder he ordered curtly:
“Keep watch over the girl. I will attend to this young jackanapes.”
On the word the blades clashed.
Jack’s eyes danced with the sheer joy of battle, and his point snicked in and out wickedly. He knew Tracy of old for an expert swordsman, and he began warily.
The girl’s persecutors retained a firm hold on either arm, but all their thoughts were centred on the duel. The men on the box got out their blunderbuss, ready to fire should the need arise, and the girl herself watched breathlessly, red lips apart, and eyes aglow with fright, indignation, and excitement. As for the old lady, she positively bobbed up and down shrieking encouragement to Carstares.
The blades hissed continuously against one another; time after time the Duke thrust viciously, and ever his point was skilfully parried. He was absolutely calm, and his lips sneered. Who it was that he was fighting, he had not the faintest idea; he only knew that his opponent had recognised him, and must be speedily silenced. Therefore he fought with deadly grimness and purpose.
