Peregrine could not be content. She had been insulted, and it must be for him to bring the stranger to book. As she set about the task of arguing him out of this determination, Judith realized that she had rather bring the gentleman to book herself. To have Peregrine settle the business could bring her no satisfaction; it must be for her to punish the stranger’s insolence, and she fancied that she could do so without assistance.

When Peregrine went downstairs again to the coffee-room the strange gentleman had gone. The landlord, still harassed and busy with the company, could not tell Peregrine his name, nor even recall having served Lord Worcester. So many gentlemen had crowded into his inn to-day that he could not be blamed for forgetting half of them. As for a team of blood-chestnuts, he could name half a dozen such teams; they might all have drawn up at the George for anything he knew. Peregrine could only be sorry that Mr. Fitzjohn was already on his way back to London: he might have known the stranger’s name.

By dinner-time Grantham was quiet. A few gentlemen stayed on overnight, but they were not many. Miss Taverner could go to bed in the expectation of a night’s unbroken repose.

She thought herself reasonably safe from any further talk of the fight. It had been described to her in detail at least five times. There could be no more to say.

There was no more to say. Peregrine realized it, and beyond exclaiming once or twice during breakfast next morning that he never hoped to see a better mill, and asking his sister whether he had told her of this or that hit, he did not talk of it. He was out of spirits; after the excitement of the previous day, Sunday in Grantham was insipid beyond bearing. He was cursed flat, was only sorry Judith’s scruples forbade them setting forward for London at once.

There was nothing to do but go to church, and stroll about the town a little with his sister on his arm. Even the gig had had to be returned to its owner.

They attended the service together, and after it walked slowly back to the George. Peregrine was all yawns and abstraction. He could not be brought to admire anything, was not interested in the history even of the Angel Inn, where it was said that Richard the Third had once lain. Judith must know he had never cared a rap for such fusty old stuff. He wished there were some way of passing the time; he could not think what he should do with himself until dinner.

He was grumbling on in this strain when the pressure of Judith’s fingers on his arm compelled his attention. She said in a low voice: “Perry, the gentleman who gave up his rooms to us! I wish you would speak to him: we owe him a little extraordinary civility.”

He brightened at once, and looked round him. He would be glad to shake hands with the fellow; might even, if Judith was agreeable, invite him to dine with them.

The gentleman was approaching them, upon the same side of the road. It was evident that he had recognized them; he looked a little conscious, but did not seem to wish to stop. As he drew nearer he raised his hat and bowed slightly, and would have passed on if Peregrine, dropping his sister’s arm, had not stood in the way.

“I beg pardon,” Peregrine said, “but I think you are the gentleman who was so obliging to us on Friday?”

The other bowed again, and murmured something about it being of no moment.

“But it was of great moment to us, sir,” Judith said. “I am afraid we thanked you rather curtly, and you may have thought us very uncivil.”

He raised his eyes to her face, and said earnestly: “No, indeed not, ma’am. I was happy to be of service; it was nothing to me: I might command a lodging elsewhere. I beg you won’t think of it again.”

He would have passed on, and seeing him so anxious to be gone Miss Taverner made no further effort to detain him. But Peregrine was less perceptive, and still barred the way. “Well, I’m glad to have met you again, sir. Say what you will, I am in your debt. My name is Taverner—Peregrine Taverner. This is my sister, as perhaps you know.”

The gentleman hesitated for an instant. Then he said in rather a low voice: “I did know. That is to say, I heard your name mentioned.”

“Ay, did you so? I daresay you might. But we did not hear yours, sir,” said Peregrine, laughing.

“No, I was unwilling to—I did not wish to thrust myself upon your notice,” said the other. A smile crept into his eyes; he said a little ruefully: “My name is also Taverner.”

“Good God!” cried Peregrine in great astonishment. “You don’t mean—you are not related to us, are you?”

“I am afraid I am,” said Mr. Taverner. “My father is Admiral Taverner.”

“Well, by all that’s famous!” exclaimed Peregrine. “I never knew he had a son!”

Judith had listened with mixed feelings. She was amazed, at once delighted to find that she had so unexpectedly amiable a relative, and sorry that he should be the son of a man her father had mistrusted so wholeheartedly. His modesty, the delicacy with which he had refrained from instantly making himself known to them, his manners, which were extremely engaging, outweighed the rest. She held her hand out to him, saying in a friendly way: “Then we are cousins, and should know each other better.”

He bowed over her fingers. “You are very good. I have wished to speak to you, but the disagreements—the estrangement, rather, between your father and mine made me diffident.”

“Oh well, there’s no reason why that should concern us!” said Peregrine, brushing it aside with an airy gesture. “I daresay my uncle is as hasty as my father was, eh, Judith?”

She could not assent to it; he should not be speaking of their father in that fashion to one who was quite a stranger to them.

Mr. Taverner seemed to feel it also. He said: “I believe there were grave faults, but we can hardly judge—I certainly must not. You will understand—it is difficult for me.—But I have already said too much.”

He addressed himself more particularly to Judith. She fancied there was a faint bitterness in the way he spoke. She found herself more than ever disposed to like him. His manner indicated—or so she thought—that he was aware of some behaviour on his father’s part which he could not approve. She respected him for his reticence; he seemed to feel just as he ought. It was with pleasure that she heard Peregrine invite him to dine with them.

He was obliged to excuse himself: he was engaged with his friends; he wished it had been in his power to accept.

He was obviously sincere; he looked disconsolate. For her part Judith was sadly disappointed, but she would neither press him, nor permit Peregrine to do so.

Mr. Taverner bowed over her hand again, and held it a moment. “I am more than sorry. I should have liked excessively—But it must not be. I am promised. May I—you will be open with me, cousin—may I give myself the pleasure of calling on you in town?”

She smiled and gave permission.

“You have a guardian who will advise you,” he said. “I am not acquainted with Lord Worth, but I believe him to be generally very well-liked. He will put you in the way of everything. But if there is at any time anything I can do for you—if you should feel yourselves in want of a friend—I hope you will remember that the wicked cousin would be only too happy to be of service.” It was said with an arch look, and the hint of a smile. He gave Peregrine his card.

Peregrine held it between his fingers. “Thank you. We shall hope to see more of you, cousin. We mean to put up at Grillon’s for the present, but my sister has a notion of setting up house. I don’t know how it will end. But Grillon’s will find us.”

Mr. Taverner noted it down in his pocket-book, bowed again, and took his leave of them. They watched him walk away down the street.

“I’ll tell you what, Ju,” said Peregrine suddenly, “I wish he may tell me the name of his tailor. Did you notice his coat?”

She had not; she had been aware only of a certain elegance. There was nothing of the fop about him.

They strolled on towards the George wondering about their cousin. A glance at his card informed them that his name was Bernard, and that he was to be found at an address in Harley Street, which Miss Taverner knew, from having heard her father speak of an acquaintance living there, to be a respectable neighbourhood.

The rest of the day passed quietly; they went to bed in good time to be in readiness for an early start in the morning.

Consultation of the Traveller’s Guide convinced Miss Taverner at least that the rest of the journey could not be accomplished with comfort in one day. It was in vain that Peregrine argued that by setting forward at eight in the morning they could not fail to reach London by nine in the evening at the latest. Miss Taverner placed no dependence on his reckoning. The post-horses might, as he swore they would, cover nine miles an hour, but he made no allowance for changing them, or for the halts at the turnpikes, or for any other of the checks they would be sure to encounter. She had no wish to be traveling for as much as twelve hours at a stretch, and no wish to arrive in London after nightfall. Peregrine was forced to give way, though with an ill-grace.

However, by the time they had reached Stevenage, shortly after three o’clock on the following afternoon, he was heartily tired of sitting in the chaise, and very glad to get down at the Swan Inn, and stretch his limbs, and bespeak dinner and beds for the night.

They were off again directly they had breakfasted next morning. They had only thirty-one miles to cover now, and with London drawing nearer every moment they were both impatient to arrive, and alert to catch sight of every milestone.

Barnet was their last stage, and here they seemed to be at last within hail of London. The town was busy, for the traffic of the Holyhead road, as well as that of the Great North road, passed through it. There were any number of inns, and two great houses which were solely devoted to posting business. The smaller of these, the Red Lion, took most of the north-going vehicles, while the larger, the Green Man, which was situated in the middle of the town and kept no less than twenty-six pairs of horses and eleven post-boys, seized on the chaises travelling south.

The rivalry between the two was fierce in the extreme; it was said that on more than one occasion private chaises had been intercepted and the horses forcibly changed at one or other of the inns.

Some sign of this was evident in the way the ostlers of the Green Man came running out at the approach of the Taverners’ chaise, and led it into the big stable yard. A glass of sherry was handed up to Peregrine, and sandwiches were offered to his sister, this being one of the superior attractions of the Green Man over the Red Lion that its customers had free refreshments pressed on them.

The change of horses was accomplished in two minutes; a couple of post-boys cast off the smocks they wore over their blue jackets to keep them clean, and sprang into the saddles; and almost before the travellers had time to fetch their breath they were out of the stable-yard again, and trotting off towards London.

Another two miles brought them to the village of Whetstone, and the turnpike which marked the beginning of Finchley Common.

The very name of this famous tract of land was enough to conjure up terrifying thoughts, but on this fine warm October day the heath seemed kindly enough. No masked figures came galloping to hold up the chaise; nothing more alarming than a stage-coach painted all the colours of the rainbow was to be met with; and in a short space the village of East End was reached, and whatever terrors the Common might hide were left safely behind.

Highgate afforded the travellers their first glimpse of London. As the chaise topped the rise and began the descent upon the southern side, the view spread itself before Miss Taverner’s wondering eyes. There were the spires, the ribbon of the Thames, and the great huddle of buildings of which she had heard so much, lying below her in a haze of sunlight. She could not take her eyes from the sight, nor believe that she was really come at last to the city she had dreamed of for so long.

The way led down until the view was lost, and the chaise entered on the Holloway road, a lonely track which ran, still descending, between high banks until Islington Spa was reached. This was a charming village, with tall elm trees growing on the green, a rustic pound for strayed cattle, and a number of coaching inns.

The last toll-gate was passed, and the ticket which opened it given up to the gate-keeper. In a very little while the chaise was bowling between lines of houses, over a cobbled surface.