Dick Bellamy lifted the girl and carried her to a spot where he could lay her down with head a little lower than heels; watched her until the colour of the face improved and the breath became more regular; and then made use of her insensibility to pay his last duty to the dead.

Without moving the body, he went through the pockets, finding nothing worth keeping except a few letters and a bunch of keys; for revolver cartridges there were none.

For a moment he regarded the grim dagger point, deciding to leave it where it was.

"If Melchard finds it," he thought, "he'll think it's something to do with his little Dutch trollop."

Returning to Amaryllis, he stood once more looking down at her.

He could not carry her in her present state two miles across the moor in the growing heat, and with only one of their five enemies safely dead, while the four others hung on his flank, cunning and desperate, if able to think and act.

And there was Fridji—she was surely herself again—either screaming or at liberty.

His own stomach, in spite of his few mouthfuls at "The Coach and Horses," reminded him that Amaryllis had not eaten during the last thirteen, or fourteen hours.

A little breeze had arisen, blowing from the south-east, and brought with it to his nostrils the smell of wood-smoke. He looked at the pile of cut wood.

"I ought to have known," he thought; and stooping, raised the girl, still unconscious, tied the jacket by the arms round her neck, and lifting her so that her waist was against his shoulder, set out to windward, following the wheel-tracks.

Ten minutes' steady walking brought him to a bend in the path which showed him the smoke he had been smelling, rising from the brick chimney of a squat stone cottage which, rather than to nestle among the woods, as well-behaved cottages should, seemed to shrink from the ragged timber which surrounded it.

Beside the door, on a battered kitchen chair, sat a woman, reading what Dick took for a newspaper. As he drew nearer she rose, and picked up a tin wash-basin full of corn; and to the "Coop, coop, coop," of her melancholy voice came clucking and scrambling chickens and hens in grand flutter of greed.

Her eyes were on them as she scattered the grain, and Dick could see her clearly enough to wish he had a man to deal with, before the sound of his steps rose above the clamour of the poultry, and the woman looked up.

If he had taken, at that moment, any interest in his own appearance, he would have expected her to scream; for the chicken-feeder raised her eyes to see, limping towards her, clad in muddy boots, torn grey trousers and blue cotton shirt with streaks of drying blood down the left breast, a tall, dark-haired man, carrying a woman hanging across his shoulder.

And on the man's left cheek was a bruised cut, swelled, and clotted over with dried blood, which had run down in a stream, flowing over the jaw and ending at the collar; and all the way the drying rivulet had clung to the dark stubble of a twenty-four hours' beard.

For the rest, sweat, dust, fasting and sleeplessness had made of this a face whose horror was but increased by the alertness of the eyes, which shone with so shocking a blueness that the woman, finding them unlike any eyes which she had seen before, called them to herself, "evil eyes—the eyes of a desperate man."

Being a person of some courage, she managed with an effort to keep her hold of the basin and to scatter the remaining grains among the fowls before addressing her terrific visitor.

"You're trespassin'," she said, with harsh self-possession. And from the grass she picked up her cheap magazine and dropped it into the basin which she had just slapped down on the bench by the door.

On the thin paper cover Dick read The Penny Pansy.

"It is not trespassing, madam," he replied in a voice whose ingratiating quality was devoid of affectation, "—it can't be trespassing for a man in great need to come for help to the nearest house."

"I'm too poor to help the poorest," objected the woman, "and I don't like your luggage, sir." And she wondered why she had sirred a cut-throat looking ruffian such as this.

Dick Bellamy wondered why the woman, in this lonely place, spoke so differently from the landlord of "The Coach and Horses." But he remembered The Penny Pansy, and felt for an opening.

Her gaze reminded him of his blood.

"It is not, madam," he said impressively, "a corpse that I carry; though how long the lady will survive, unless you can furnish us with nourishment and shelter, I dare not conjecture. This blood which you see is my own, spent in her defence."

He sat down on a chopping-block not far from the door, sliding Amaryllis to his knees, and resting her head against his shoulder.

"You can't sit there all day nursing a great, grown girl, like she was a child," said the woman.

"That is indeed true," he replied. "And therefore I beg you to let us rest in your house until the young lady is fit to travel."

"It's easy to talk of travelling," she objected with sour insolence. "But 'tis my belief that, once let the hussy in, I'll never be rid of her."

"My desire to be gone," replied Dick, "by far outweighs any anxiety of yours, my good woman."

"Are you her husband?" asked the woman, impressed, but trying to keep the severity from fading out of her face.

"Not yet," replied Dick, assuming an expression of extreme solemnity. "About us two, madam, hangs a web of mystery. It is a story I should like to confide in you, for there is something in your face which reminds me of my old mother," and he brought a note of pathos into his voice, straight from the pages of "East Lynne," words and tone coming with an ease which surprised him.

"There's naught preventing," said the woman, expectantly.

"Except that the lady needs rest, I want a wash, and we both want food," said Dick. "You just be as kind as you look, and I'll give you a pound for every half-hour we spend in your house, and, if there's time, a romance into the bargain. You know what's stranger than fiction, don't you, mother?"

"The truth, they do say. But I dunno," she answered, doubtfully.

"What has happened to me in the last twenty-four hours," said Dick, "would shame the most exciting serial in the Millsborough Herald."

"'Tis the Courier has the best," interrupted the woman eagerly.

"Mine will knock spots off the Courier—if we have time for it," said Dick, in the tone of dark suggestion.

"Bring her in," said the woman, curiosity prevailing. "I'll do my best for you both;" and Dick, rising with care not to disturb his now sleeping burden, carried it into the cottage.

The little house consisted of a large kitchen and two bedrooms opening from it. The woman, now almost hospitable, opened one of the inner doors.

"My son Tom's room," she said, with some pride. "He's away to Millsborough. Better put the lady in here. 'Tis a better bed than mine, and all clean and tidy for him against he comes on Monday."

She sighed heavily over some thought of her son, and watched her strange guest lay his strange load on the bed.

The idea that under this ill-fitting, already draggled skirt, and loose, ridiculous man's jacket were concealed the fine skin and well-tended person of a lady, filled her with expectation of romance. If the Millsborough Herald had taught her to despise the "low moral tone" of those who ride in carriages and know not hardship, the Penny Pansy, in its own inimitable manner, had compelled her to believe that they possessed a distinction which she could not define.

They were "dainty" in appearance, "delicate" in thought, and "very pale" in love or tragic circumstances.

But this one—if lady indeed she were—was pale with exhaustion, perhaps hunger, as any woman might be; and yet through it all there shone dimly something which reminded her of the romance she had drunk from the shallow and sluggish channel of machine-made fiction.

If this were a heroine, then the queer, persuasive man, bloody and blue-eyed, was the hero—and his kind she knew neither in Penny Pansy's country nor her own.

"Half a dozen eggs, please, laid to-day. I give half a crown apiece for eggs, if I like 'em," said Dick. "Got any brandy, whisky, or gin? And what's your name?"

"Brundage, sir."

"And the name of this place?"

"Monkswood Cottage, near Margetstowe."

"Well, then, Mrs. Brundage—about that brandy?"

"There is a drop of rum—for medicine, so to say," admitted Mrs. Brundage, with a cold simper.

"Good medicine too," he said. "Lady Adelina will take some in the eggs I'm going to beat up for her. For me, get bacon and eggs, tea, and bags of bread and butter. See, she's opening her eyes. I'll leave you to look after her."

Outside the cottage door, he examined the revolver Amaryllis had given him. Of its six cartridges, four had been discharged. But two might make all the difference; and, after all, he had only to get Amaryllis to the car, or the car to Amaryllis.

And as he walked round the cottage, watching the woods, reflection led him more and more to believe that he had shaken himself free of his enemies. All but the Woman and the Dago were more or less damaged; none, it was probable, knew in what direction Ockley had disappeared; fear of the evidence he held against them might now prompt them rather to flight than pursuit; and what, he asked himself, could that yellow-haired she-devil, even if the little Dago that had bolted were faithful to his fellows, do against him now?

Amaryllis should have her rest.

Passing her window, he heard her talking rapidly, her words broken by sobs which pained him, and snatches of laughter which hurt him more.

He met Mrs. Brundage at the door.

"She's feared of me—pushes me away," she whispered. "Highsterical, you may call it. If you're Dick, sir, it's you she wants. I've got her in bed, but I don't promise she'll stay there."

He pushed past her, saw the rum-bottle and the eggs set out on the kitchen table, took a tumbler and spoon from the dresser, and broke the first egg into the glass.

"Sugar," he said, "and milk."

Mrs. Brundage gave him both, with a quickness which pleased him.

"Tell her Dick's coming," he said, and the woman went, leaving the door ajar.

As he beat the eggs to a froth, he could hear her awkward attempts to soothe the girl's distress.

When the mixture was ready, "I'm coming," he called. "Dick's coming to you, sure thing," and took it into the bedroom.

"I think," he said, standing over her, "that you're making rather a fool of yourself."

"I know I am. But I can't stop." Then, sitting up, with tears running down her face, she sobbed out: "Don't you be unkind to me too."

He sat down on the edge of the bed, put an arm round her shaking body, and held the tumbler towards her.

"Drink it up," he said; and the Brundage woman noted how adroitly he avoided the hand that would have pushed away the glass.

"I don't want it. I want you. I'm safe with you."

"It's both or neither. Drink it slowly. I'll stay to the last drop," he said, smiling down at her as she had never seen him smile before.

She obeyed, looking up at him between the mouthfuls, with something like adoration in her eyes.

When only a quarter of the mixture was left in the glass, she spoke:

"You're good to me," she said.

"Of course," he answered, and she laid her head on his shoulder and slept at once.

So for a while he held her; and the watcher saw the strength and judgment with which, a little later, he lowered the head to the pillow so that the change of position never brought a quiver to the closed eyelids; and, feeling romance as never before, she let a man play sick-nurse to a maiden in bed without one censorious thought, and became dimly aware for a moment in her drab life that love and modesty, strength and beauty, safety and trust, spring to meet each other out of the hidden root of things.

Dick laid the coverlet over the girl's shoulders, and walked out of the room with a silence of which the woman achieved only an indifferent imitation.

"And him with that bad limp, too," she said to herself afterwards, "and them thick boots!"

"Breakfast," said Dick, in that low tone of his which never whispered. "Leave her door open, and our voices will make her feel safe in her sleep. Give me a towel and soap. I'll wash at the pump while you make tea."

When he had washed, eaten many eggs and drunk much tea, Mrs. Brundage thought her turn had come.

"Lady Adeline——" she began, but Dick turned on her so sudden a stare that she stopped short. And no less suddenly he remembered.

The woman's softening had made him almost willing to trust her with a condensed version of the facts. But her "Adeline" reminded him that he was already committed to a safer course.

"Adelina," he said, correcting her, "the Lady Adelina, not Adeline. Her mother, you see, Mrs. Brundage, was an Italian lady of high birth, and her exalted family were very particular about the end of the name."

To gain time he finished his tea, and lighted his pipe—his first smoke since he had left St. Albans.

"The father is an Englishman of title, who has long set his heart on a great marriage for his daughter. For months, nay, years, the high-spirited Lady Adelina has resisted the idea of yoking herself with a man she dislikes and for whom she has no respect."

"Poor young lady," sighed Mrs. Brundage. The familiar tale was alive with reality for her. "Now I'll lay the father's a baronet," she said.

"You have great insight, Mrs. Brundage. But it is worse than that: he is a marquis. Well, just before I first met her, Adelina, worn out by her father's alternate cajolery and brutality, had yielded, almost promising to do as he wished. It was during the war——"

"That war!" exclaimed Mrs. Brundage. "It's got a deal to answer for. Now, there's Tom; it's changed his heart from cows and horses to motor-cars and airyplanes."

"It was in a hospital——" said Dick.

"Them hospitals!" she interrupted. "I know 'em. And very dangerous institootions I consider 'em."

"I see you do—so you will understand that part. When we had made the discovery that each was the only thing in the world to the other, and she had told her father, the Marquis of Ontario, that she would wed none but me, his anger was so terrible that I dared no longer leave her beneath his roof. There was nothing for it but——"

"An elopement!" burst from Mrs. Brundage.

Dick nodded.

"We did it—last night, in my car. But about four miles from Millsborough, we had an accident. You've seen my face, Mrs. Brundage, but you haven't seen my car. And we knew that the Marquis was not far behind us. So we dragged ourselves along the ditch into which we had fallen, and hid. At dawn we saw him go tearing by in his sumptuous sixteen-cylinder electric landaulette. After that——"

A crunching of gravel outside brought a not inconvenient interruption to this romance.

Dick was out of the kitchen like a flash, his right hand in the pocket of his jacket.

Mrs. Brundage heard a voice that was not his, and words of a language she had never heard before. Having no reason to fear anything worse than the Marquis of Ontario, she followed her hero with a stride as swift and almost as silent as his own.

Before she reached the corner, she heard his voice in sharp command, answered by a rapid flow of words in a tongue and voice strange to her.

She checked her advance suddenly and noisily, heard a second order jerked out, and showed herself.

"Abajo las manos," Dick had said—just in time, for PÉpe el Lagarto's hands hung by his sides once more when Mrs. Brundage came round the corner and caught her first sight of him.

A small, dingy-faced man, with fear in the lines of his mouth, but a pathetic, dog-like trust in his eyes, stood looking up at the stern master who, it seemed, had caught him unawares.

Mrs. Brundage did not like the new-comer, nor the aspect of this meeting.

"Who is this man, Mr.—Mr. Dick?" she asked.

He turned upon her with surprise so well-feigned that she fully believed he had not heard her coming.

"He's my chauffeur, Mrs. Brundage," he said. "He is of Spanish blood, born in the Republic of La Plata. With the skill which is second nature to him he has tracked me to your house—to tell me that my car is already repaired, and that the Earl of Toronto—er—the Marquis of Ontario is sending out party after party to search the whole countryside for us. With your permission, PÉpe el Lagarto will remain here until the Lady Adelina is able to proceed, when he will guide us to the place where the car is concealed."

Dick led the way back to the Brundage kitchen, where he made this strange servant sit down, and set before him half a tumbler of rum.

"I hope," he said magnificently, "that you will pardon my listening to a full account of his doings. It is in the interest of the Lady Adelina that I should know everything; and the conclusion of my narrative to you, Mrs. Brundage, must, I regret to say, be postponed."

He turned to PÉpe, and spoke in the lazy Spanish of the Argentine.

"And now, you dog," he said, with manner as smooth as his words were harsh, "how dare you come fawning on me, after helping these filthy, misbegotten sons of Satan to kidnap a lady?"

PÉpe writhed with discomfort and apprehension, even while his eyes continued to adore his idol over the rim of the glass from which he sipped his rum. And this contradiction in expression interested Mrs. Brundage so much that she went quietly about her work, hoping by hard listening to steal some meaning from the soft words which came pouring out in exculpation.