“What puzzles me,” said Rupert, “is why he should be the living spit of Léonie.”

Merivale started up.

“That is it, then! I could not think where I had seen her like! What does it all mean?”

“Oh, but she is not like him!” protested Jennifer. “’Tis but the red hair makes you say so. Léonie has a sweet little face!”

“Red hair and dark eyebrows,” said Rupert. “Damme, I believe there’s more in this than we think! It’s like Justin to play a deep game, stap me if it isn’t!”

Merivale laughed at him.

“What game, rattle-pate?”

“I don’t know, Tony. But if you’d lived with Justin for as many years as I have you wouldn’t laugh. Justin hasn’t forgot the quarrel, I’ll swear! He never forgets. There’s something afoot, I’ll be bound.”

CHAPTER XVII

Of a Capture, a Chase, and Contusion

“Oh, parbleu!” Léonie said in disgust. “This Rupert he is always late, the vaurien!”

“My dearest love,” Madam Field reproved her. “That expression! Indeed, it is not becoming in a young lady! I must beg of you——”

“To-day I am not a lady at all,” said Léonie flatly. “I want Monseigneur to come.”

“My dear, it is hardly proper in you to——”

“Ah, bah!” said Léonie, and walked away.

She went to her own apartment, and sat disconsolately down at the window.

“It is two weeks since Monseigneur wrote,” she reflected. “And then he said, I come soon now. Voyons, this is no way to keep that promise! And Rupert is late again.” A sparkle came into her eyes. She jumped up. “I will have a game with Rupert,” she said.

With this intention she pulled her boy’s raiment out of the cupboard, and struggled out of her skirts. Her hair had grown, but it was not yet long enough to be confined in the nape of her neck by a riband. It clustered about her head still in a myriad soft curls. She brushed it back from her forehead, dressed herself in shirt and breeches and coat, and, catching up her tricorne, swaggered downstairs. Luckily Madam Field was nowhere to be seen, so she escaped without let or hindrance into the garden. It was the first time she had ventured out of doors in her boy’s gear, and since it was an illicit pleasure her eyes twinkled naughtily. Rupert, with all his laxity, had in him a quaint streak of prudery, as she knew.

He would of a certainty be shocked to see her parading the grounds thus clad, and as this was precisely what she wanted she set out in the hope of meeting him, making for the woods that ran down towards the road.

Half-way across the big meadow that separated her from the woodland she espied Rupert coming from the stables, carrying his hat under his arm, and whistling jauntily. Léonie cupped her hands about her mouth.

“Ohé, Rupert!” she called gleefully.

Rupert saw her, stood still a moment, and then came striding towards her.

“Fiend seize it, what will you be at next?” he shouted. “’Pon my soul, it’s scandalous, stap me if it’s not! Home with you, you hoyden!”

“I shall not, Milor’ Rupert!” she cried tauntingly, and danced away. “You cannot make me!”

“Can I not, then?” called Rupert, and, dropping his hat, broke into a run.

Léonie straightway dived into the wood, and fled as for her life, for she knew very well that if he caught her Rupert would have no hesitation in picking her up and carrying her back to the house.

“Wait till I catch you!” threatened Rupert, crashing through the undergrowth. “Damme, I’ve torn my ruffle, and the lace cost me fifteen guineas! Plague take it, where are you?”

Léonie sent a mocking cry echoing through the wood, and ran on, listening to Rupert’s blundering progress behind her. She led him in and out of trees, through bushes, round in circles, and over the stream, always keeping just out of sight, until she found herself coming out into the road. She would have turned and doubled back, had she not chanced to see a light travelling coach standing near by. She was surprised, and tiptoed to peep at it over a low thorn-bush. In the distance she heard Rupert’s voice, half-exasperated, half-laughing. She threw back her head to call to him, and, as she did so, saw to her amazement the Comte de Saint-Vire, walking quickly up one of the paths that led through the wood. He was frowning, and his heavy mouth pouted. He looked up, and as his glance fell upon her the frown went from his face, and he came hurrying towards her.

“I give you good morrow, Léon the Page,” he said, and the words bit. “I had hardly hoped that I should find you thus soon. The luck is with me this round, I think.”

Léonie retreated a little. Avon’s warning was in her mind.

“Bonjour, m’sieur,” she said, and wondered what he was doing in the Duke’s grounds, or why he was in England at all. “Did you go to see Monseigneur?” she asked, with wrinkled brow. “He is not here.”

“I am desolated,” said Saint-Vire sarcastically, and came right up to her. She shrank, and, in a fit of inexplicable panic, called to Rupert.

“Rupert, Rupert, ŕ moi!”

Even as she cried Saint-Vire’s hand was over her mouth and his other arm about her waist. Struggling madly she was swept from the ground and borne at a run to where the coach stood waiting. Without compunction she bit deeply into the hand over her mouth. There was a muttered oath, the hand flinched a little, and she jerked her head away to shriek again.

“Rupert, Rupert, on m’enporte! Ŕ moi, ŕ moi, ŕ moi!”

His voice came to her, nearer at hand.

“Who—what——? What the devil——?”

She was flung then into the coach, sprang up like a small fury, but was thrust roughly back again. She heard Saint-Vire give an order to the coachman; then he jumped in beside her, and the coach lurched forward.

Rupert came plunging into the road, hot and dishevelled, just in time to see the coach disappear round the bend in the road, in the direction of the village.

He had suspected at first that Léonie was only teasing him, but her second cry had held a note of genuine 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 Léonie, 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 Léonie?”

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 Léonie, 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!”