“I was about to tell you, my dear, when you interrupted me with your stricture upon my cousin. My Lord and Lady Merivale were there to help find you.”

“Faith, it must have been a merry meeting!” put in the irrepressible Rupert.

“It was not without its amusing side. From them I learned of your disappearance.”

“Did you think we had eloped?” Rupert inquired.

“That explanation did present itself to me,” admitted his Grace.

“Eloped?” Léonie echoed. “With Rupert? Ah, bah, I would as soon elope with the old goat in the field!”

“If it comes to that, I’d as soon elope with a tigress!” retorted Rupert. “Sooner, by Gad!”

“When this interchange of civilities is over,” said his Grace languidly, “I will continue. But do not let me interrupt you.”

“Ay, go on,” said Rupert. “What next?”

“Next, my children, Mr. Manvers bounced in upon us. I fear that Mr. Manvers is not pleased with you, Rupert, or with me, but let that pass. From him I gathered that you, Rupert, had gone off in pursuit of a coach containing a French gentleman. After that it was easy. I journeyed that night to Southampton—you did not think to board the Queen, boy?”

“I remembered her, but I was in no mood to waste time riding to Southampton. Go on.”

“For which I thank you. You would undoubtedly have sold her had you taken her to France. I crossed in her yesterday, and came into Le Havre at sundown. There, my children, I made sundry inquiries, and there also I spent the night. From the innkeeper I learned that Saint-Vire had set off with Léonie by coach for Rouen at two in the afternoon, and further that you, Rupert, had hired a horse half an hour or more later—by the way, have you still that horse, or has it already gone the way of its fellow?”

“No, it’s here right enough,” chuckled Rupert.

“You amaze me. All this, I say, I learned from the innkeeper. It was rather too late then for me to set out in search of you, and, moreover, I half expected you to arrive at Le Havre. When you did not arrive I feared that you, Rupert, had failed to catch my very dear friend Saint-Vire. So this morning, my children, I took coach along the road to Rouen, and came upon a derelict.” His Grace produced his snuff-box, and opened it. “My very dear friend’s coach, with his arms blazoned upon the door. It was scarcely wise of my very dear friend to leave his coach lying for me to find, but it is possible, of course, that he did not expect me.”

“He is a fool, Monseigneur. He did not know even that I was pretending to be asleep.”

“According to you, my infant, the world is peopled by fools. I believe you have reason. To resume. It seemed probable that Léonie had escaped; further it seemed probable that she had escaped towards Le Havre. But since neither of you had arrived at that port I guessed that you were concealed somewhere on the road to Le Havre. Therefore, mes enfants, I drove back along the road until I came to a lane that gave on to it. Down this lane I proceeded.”

“We went across the fields,” Léonie cut in.

“A shorter way, no doubt, but one could hardly expect a coach to take it. At the hamlet I came upon they knew nothing of you. I drove on, and came at length, by devious ways, to this place. The luck, you see, favoured me. Let us hope that my very dear friend will be equally fortunate. Infant, go and change your clothes.”

“Yes, Monseigneur. What are we going to do now?”

“That remains to be seen,” said Avon. “Away with you!”

Léonie departed. His Grace looked at Rupert.

“My young madman, has a surgeon seen your wound?”

“Ay, he came last night, confound him!”

“What said he?”

“Oh, naught! He’ll come again to-day.”

“From your expression I am led to infer that he prophesied some days in bed for you, child.”

“Ten, plague take him! But I shall be well enough by to-morrow.”

“You will remain there, nevertheless, until the worthy surgeon permits you to arise. I must send for Harriet.”

“Lord, must you? Why?”

“To chaperon my ward,” said his Grace calmly. “I hope my letter will not bring about a fresh attack of the vapours. Gaston had best start for Le Havre at once.” He rose. “I want pen, ink, and paper. I suppose I shall find them downstairs. You would be better for an hour’s sleep, my dear.”

“But what of Saint-Vire?” Rupert asked.

“The so dear Comte is in all probability scouring the country-side. I hope to see him soon.”

“Ay, but what will you do?”

“I? I shall do precisely nothing.”

“I’d give a pony to see his face when he finds you here!”

“Yes, I do not think he will be pleased,” said his Grace, and went out.

CHAPTER XXI

The Discomfiture of the Comte de Saint-Vire

Mine host and hostess of the Black Bull at Le Dennier had never before entertained such quality at their humble inn. Madame sent a serving man running hot-foot to her neighbour, Madame Tournoise, and presently the lady came hurrying in with her daughter to aid Madame in her preparations. When she heard that no less a personage than an English Duke, with his entourage, had arrived at the inn, she was round-eyed in wonderment, and when his Grace came slowly down the stairs clad in a coat of palest lavender, with lacing of silver, and a silver waistcoat, amethysts in his lace, and on his fingers, she stood staring open-mouthed.

His Grace went to the little parlour, and sent for writing materials. Mine host came bustling with the inkhorn, and desired to know whether Monseigneur would take any refreshment. His Grace bespoke a bottle of canary wine, and three glasses, and sat him down to write to his cousin. A faint smile hovered about his lips.

“My very dear Cousin,—

“I Trust that by the Time you Receive this Missive you will have recovered from the Sad Indisposition which had overtaken you when I had the Pleasure of seeing you, three Days since. I am Desolat’d to be Oblig’d to put you to Added Inconvenience, but I believe I must Request you to Join me here as soon as may be. Gaston, who brings this letter, will Escort you. Pray pack your Trunks for a long stay, for I have some notion of Proceeding in due Course to Paris. My Ward, you will be Reliev’d to hear, is with me in this charming Village, in company with my Lord Rupert.

“I have the Honour, my dear Cousin, to be

“Yr most devot’d, humble, and obedient servant

“Avon.”

His Grace signed his name with a flourish, still smiling. The door opened, and Léonie came in, all in foaming white muslin, with a blue sash about her waist, and a blue riband in her hair.

“Monseigneur, is it not kind of Lady Fanny to send me this pretty dress? I look nice, do you not think?”

The Duke put up his glass.

“My child, you look charming. Lady Fanny’s taste is unimpeachable.” He rose, and picked up a flat velvet case from the table. “I beg you will accept this trifling mark of my affection for you, infant.”

Léonie skipped up to him.

“Another present, Monseigneur? I think you are very kind to me! What is it, I wonder?”

His Grace opened the case. Léonie’s lips formed a soundless Oh!

“Mon-seigneur!”

The Duke lifted the pearls from their bed of velvet, and clasped them about her neck.

“Oh, Monseigneur, thank you!” she said in a gasp, and held the long string between her fingers. “They are beautiful! I love them, oh, much! Would you like me to curtsy to you, or may I just kiss your hand?”

His Grace smiled.

“You need do neither, infant.”

“I will do both,” said Léonie, and sank down with skirts outspread and one little foot peeping from beneath the muslin flounces. Then she kissed the Duke’s hand, and rose. Lastly she inspected his Grace’s clothes.

“That is a nice dress, I think,” she said.

Avon bowed.

“I like it,” Léonie said. “Monseigneur, I feel very brave now. What will you do to that pig-person when he comes?”

“I shall have the honour of presenting you, my dear,” Avon answered. “Let him have your haughtiest curtsy. It is a little game we play.”

“Yes? But I do not want to curtsy to him. I want to make him sorry.”

“Believe me, he will be very sorry, but the time is not yet. Bear in mind, ma fille, that you have not till now set eyes on my very dear friend.”

“Ah, bah, what is this?” she demanded. “I know him well, and he knows me!”

“Strive to cultivate a little imagination,” sighed his Grace. “The so dear Comte stole my page, Léon. You are my ward, Mademoiselle de Bonnard.”

“Oh!” said Léonie doubtfully. “I must be polite, enfin?”

“Very polite, child. And remember, you and I are here for our health. We know naught of abductions, or evil drinks, or even—er—pig-persons. Can you play the game of pretence?”

“But yes, Monseigneur! Will he pretend, do you think?”

“I have reason to think, child, that he will follow my lead.”

“Why, Monseigneur?”

“Because, child, he has a secret which he suspects I share. But since it is a highly discreditable secret he would not like me to think that he had any knowledge of it. We fence, you see, but whereas I see my way clearly, he moves in darkness.”

“Oh, I see!” she said. “He will be surprised to find you, n’est-ce pas?”

“I rather think he will,” agreed his Grace. He went to the table and poured out two glasses of canary. One of them he gave to Léonie. “My dear, I drink to your safe deliverance.”

“Oh, I thank you, Monseigneur! What shall I drink to?” She put her head on one side. “Voyons, I will just drink to mon cher seigneur!”

“Quite neat,” said the Duke. “Gaston? A la bonne heure! You will journey back to Avon, Gaston, at once.”

Gaston’s face fell.

“But yes, Monseigneur.”

“Bearing with you this letter to my cousin. She will accompany you to France again.”

Gaston brightened perceptibly.

“Further, you will go to Milor’ Merivale and obtain from him the clothes of Milor’ Rupert. It is understood?”

“All Milor’ Rupert’s clothes, Monseigneur?” asked Gaston, aghast.

“All of them. If he is there, bring milor’s valet also. I had well-nigh forgot Mademoiselle Léonie’s maid. Instruct her to pack the rest of mademoiselle’s clothes, and bring her—and them—to me here.”

Gaston blinked rapidly.

“Yes, Monseigneur,” he said with an effort.

“You will board the Silver Queen, of course, and you will convey your charges by coach to Portsmouth.” His Grace tossed a fat purse to him. “At Portsmouth, on your way to Avon, you will seek out a certain roan horse.”

“Bon Dieu!” muttered Gaston. “A roan horse, Monseigneur, yes.”

“A roan horse belonging to one Mr. Manvers of Crosby Hall, sold by Milor’ Rupert on Monday. You will buy it back.” Another purse followed the first. “The price is of no moment. You will have the animal conveyed to Crosby Hall, with Milor’ Rupert’s compliments and—er—thanks. That also is understood?”

“Yes, Monseigneur,” said Gaston dismally.

“Bien. This is, I think, Wednesday. You will be here again no later than Monday. Send Meekin to me now. You may go.”

The groom came speedily.

“Your Grace sent for me?”

“I did. You will start for Paris, my friend, within the hour.”

“Ay, your Grace.”

“To apprise the admirable Walker of my coming. You will bring back with you the large berline, the smaller travelling coach, and a light chaise for my Lord Rupert’s baggage. You will arrange for change of horses to await me at Rouen, at Tign, and at Pontoise. I shall rest at the Coq d’Or at Rouen for one night.”

“Very good, your Grace. Which day am I to tell the landlord?”

“I have not the least idea,” said the Duke. “But when I come I shall require four bedchambers, a private parlour, and quarters for my servants. I trust I make myself plain?”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“That is all,” said Avon.

Meekin bowed, and went out.

“Voyons,” said Léonie from her seat by the fire. “It gives me great pleasure to hear you say Do this—do that! I like to hear them answer only, ‘Yes, monseigneur,’ and go so quickly to do your bidding.”

Avon smiled.

“I have only once in my life had a servant in mine employ who dared to question my commands,” he said.

“Oh?” Léonie looked up in all innocence. “Who was that, Monseigneur?”