It was almost noon of Saturday, June the twenty-first, when a party of three halted in the shade of a few stunted hawthorns by the side of the sandy, half-made road which leads from Margetstowe village to the turnpike, which, branching from the main London Road fifteen miles to the south-west, runs north-eastward through Ecclesthorpe-on-the-Moor to the sea at the mouth of the great estuary.

From this tree-clump could be seen, facing the junction of the sandy road with the metalled, the front and the swinging signboard of "The Goat in Boots." And here, that its two more ordinary-looking members might shed the oddity which they owed to the company of the third, the party was to separate.

For in Amaryllis, sleep, Dick's care and Mrs. Brundage's wardrobe had worked transformation. From the dust and mud on the thick little shoes, up over five visible inches of coarse grey stocking to clumsy amplitude of washed-out, pink-striped cotton skirt, and thence by severity of blue-linen blouse to the face lurking in the pale lavender of the quilted sun-bonnet, the eye met nothing which was not proper to the country-girl, dressed a little older, when the tail of hair swung to her body's movement, than her sixteen years required.

If the face was not so ruddy as a moorland girl's should be, and if the mark of the "smutty finger" beneath each eye suggested, out of Ireland, ill health—well, sickness and recovery are not restricted to the town, and the bright eyes, when the lids would lift, gave promise of returning health.

Dick matched her well.

With the cut cheek decently washed, the face shaved with Tom Brundage's worst razor, and a patch of flour congealing the blood of his wound, he looked very different from the ruffian who had disturbed, so short a while since, the lunch of the Brundage chickens. For his brown boots, brushed to the semblance of a shine, brown gaiters of the army cut, green cord riding-breeches which had delighted the heart of Tom Brundage until petrol prevailed over horseflesh and drove him into black; a striped waistcoat, of the old-fashioned waspish, horsey favour, partly buttoned over a grey army shirt and loosely covered by his own Norfolk jacket, with a knotted bandanna in place of collar, made of him an odd, but wholly credible nondescript of the lower sporting world.

Men on the roads of that joyous Saturday might have asked was it whippets, horses, or the ring which best explained this lank, keen-eyed, humorous-lipped, uneven-gaited fellow; but none would have suspected a masquerade in the figure offered to their eyes with an assurance so entirely devoid of self-consciousness.

Yet to Amaryllis it was perhaps the raffish green imitation-velours Homburg hat which did most to alter Dick Bellamy's aspect; so that she would wait for a glance of his eyes to assure herself that this was indeed her wonderful friend and champion, and no new man nor changed spirit.

But PÉpe, its one honest and unpretentious person, had made the whole trio bizarre and incredible.

For though, on one word from Dick, Amaryllis had given her credence and trust to the Lizard, she yet felt that he suited so ill with any English surroundings that his incongruity would show up any boggled stitch in their two disguises. So, while she nibbled the biscuit which Dick had taken from the paper in his pocket and ordered her to eat, and listened to the unintelligible valedictory advice which PÉpe was ladling out in Spanish, she was longing to be alone with the gentleman who looked so impossible, and free from the company of the man who the very pricking of her thumbs told her was a criminal, in spite of the modest bearing and the uplifted gaze at his idol.

Did she also adore her Limping Dick, as PÉpe his Cojeante? Was the one worship antagonistic to the other? Why then—but Amaryllis, like many another woman, was so good a logician that she knew when to halt on the road to an awkward conclusion.

PÉpe at last swept off his hat in profound obeisance to "la seÑorita roja," took Dick's hand with reverence and his generous wad of notes without shame, and hurried back on his road to "The Myrtles."

She looked at Dick's face as his eyes followed the Lizard, and read in it an expression so strange and so mixed, that she turned again to take her own last sight of the man she was glad to be rid of.

PÉpe had vanished utterly.

"Yes," said Dick, following her thought, and responsive even to the terms of her recent reflection, "he never would fit an English landscape till it swallowed him."

"'Amigo de grillos'?" said the girl. "Why do you call him that? Amigo must be friend. But grillos?"

"Irons—fetters," said Dick; and taking her by the arm, started in the direction of "The Goat in Boots," walking with a curiously swaggering gait which went far to mask his limp. "Amigos de grillos—fetter-pals. We were chained together for six months."

"In—in prison? Oh, Dick!" she cried, "I knew he was horrid."

"And me?"

"I know you aren't," she replied.

"I'm afraid he is, from your point of view," he replied. "But PÉpe el Lagarto has one streak which interests me."

"Tell me," said Amaryllis.

And as they walked slowly towards the inn, he told her of PÉpe and his coca-leaves; of the Peruvian Indians' use of them to resist hunger and fatigue; and of how the little man had given his all, which he could not replace, to help la seÑorita roja over the roughness of her way.

"I had to keep a little in a bit of paper to satisfy him," said Dick.

"Then he's kind to women, at least," said Amaryllis.

"When I met him, he was in for five years—murdering his wife."

"Why?"

"Found her in company he wasn't fond of," said Dick, "so he threw her out of window."

"And the—company?"

"PÉpe slit its throat."

Amaryllis shuddered.

"No," resumed Dick, "you won't find any pretty Idylls of the King gadgets about PÉpe. He gave you all his coca-leaves because he regarded you as El Cojeante's woman—that's all."

"Do you?" asked Amaryllis, and her colour for the first time matched her head-gear.

"For to-day—of course," he answered. "You're my daughter—and don't you forget it."

Amaryllis, if the word may be used of a sound so pleasant, giggled.

"Well, daddy dear," she replied, "I admit that your friend has a shiny streak running through his horridness. And I like him for worshipping you with his dog's eyes. And I shouldn't wonder if you often find those silver veins in queer places, dad."

She said it like a question but received no response.

"If I've caught on to PÉpe's topography," he said, "the road to the right there runs on an easy downward grade for two miles, then dips sharply for another. At the lowest point—they call it Gallowstree Dip—there's another road, to the left, which runs straight to Harthborough Junction—the place we want. But at Gallowstree Dip, says PÉpe, we shall find a motor-bike and side-car with two men ready to put our lights out on contact—if there aren't too many witnesses. So when we pass them we've got to be a larger party than two. So we start by going into the bar here, and you're going to swallow bread and cheese and beer, there's a good daughter."

Amaryllis nodded. "But, Dick," she said, "if they aren't at Gallowstree Dip?"

"We've got to make our plans as we go, and change 'em when we must. It'd seem incredible, wouldn't it—if it weren't for what you've seen and suffered since last night. England! And you and I as much cut off from Bobbies and Bow Street as if we were in Petrograd or Central New Guinea. Suppose we could find a village constable in a cottage—they'd kill him as gaily as they would you or me—but it isn't his at-home day, he's at Timsdale-Horton Races. When this gaff's over, the belated soothsayers will tell me: 'you ought to have roused the police and laid your case before them,' in one of the three great towns that I drove through last night. And what yarn was I to pitch? That there might be murder going to be done at a place called 'The Myrtles'? And what time had I to tell it in? And where'd you be now, daughter, if I'd been two minutes later than I was?"

Ever so gently Amaryllis squeezed his arm against her side in gratitude, and then quivered a little, remembering the horror of Dutch Fridji and her knife—and where last she had seen it.

But Dick went on, as if he had noticed nothing, to tell her of the two letters which had barely yet, he supposed, reached Scotland Yard. He had no certainty, indeed, that the second, given to the landlord of "The Coach and Horses," had even been posted. Before nightfall, at the earliest, therefore, no help could be counted upon from the police.

"Either," said Dick, "we must break through the bars of Melchard's cage, or keep hidden inside it. The bosses of this mob, you see, won't give a damn how many of their people get strafed as long as they suppress us, and get back what I've got in my pocket."

They were now not fifty yards from the horse-trough in front of "The Goat in Boots."

A little way from the entrance, drawn up opposite to the stable-yard, stood a long, clumsy wagonette-brake with coats and green-carpet cricket-bags lying about its seats. Two horses were at the pole, seriously bowed over their nose-bags. A swingle-tree hung at the pole's end, and a second pair of reins was fast to the driver's seat, the four cheek-buckles lying crossed over the wheeler's backs.

"Fower-in-hand, and leaders in staable! Sick, likely, or more gradely stuff," said Dick, musing aloud.

Amaryllis, whose eyes were on the signboard, started as if a stranger had spoken at her side. She looked quickly in his face, and found it so altered in expression that she knew the words had come from his lips.

"Oh, Dick!" she whispered. "You're wonderful. But whatever shall I do? If I open my mouth, I shall give us away."

"Howd tha mouth shut, then, 'Minta, lass," he said. Then, lowering his tone, he added in his own language: "I'll account for you. Don't forget your name's Araminta. You've been ill, and the doctor's ordered open-air treatment."

As they reached the threshold, the roar of Millsborough dialect came to them through the windows of the bar-parlour.

Dick pointed to the bench by the door.

"Set there, lass, and Ah'll fetch t' grub," he said aloud. "'Tis bad air for 'ee in tap-room."

As if the world were his, he swung into the bar, where he found two yokels listening to the half-drunken lamentations of a middle-aged, plum-cheeked fellow in a shabby blue livery coatee with shabbier gilt buttons; and even while he was giving his order for a glass of mild, and a bit of bread and cheese on plate for daughter—who'd been main sick, and would likely throw her stomach if she sat in tap-room, for doctor said for her open-air treatment was best medicine—he was listening patiently to the man he guessed to be the driver of the cricketers' brake.

He took the glass and plate and a pat on the shoulder to 'Minta.

"You just make un go doan, lovey," he said. "More eaten, more stomick next time. Eat slow and steady, says Dr. Pape."

Back in the bar, he buried his nose in his tankard.

For the tenth time Plum-face summed up his woes.

"Boy and man, nineteen year Ah've tooled St. Asaph's Eleven to Ecclesthorpe June Fixture. Four-in-'and's historical, like goose to Michaelmas. But to-day, Old Grudgers—ye know Grudger's Bait, far end o' Mill Street? To-day, old Grudge, 'e says, 'You hitch Fancy Blood near-lead,' and I says 'im back, 'If 'ee puts 'er 'long o' Tod Sloan, Fancy'll go dead lame afore "T'Goat in Boots."' And dead lame she stands in staable here, first time six month. Not offerin' lame, mind you, with a peck an' a limp when she keeps 'er mind on 'er wicked meanin', but sore up to the off fore pastern, and the hoof that hot it'd light a lucifer. Fancy's a female, she is, same as your wife or mine; and Tod, 'e just sours 'er blood, and there ye are. Ah tell 'ee, boys, Ned Blossom's shamed, 'e is, if he comes slatherin' into Ecclesthorpe-on-the-Moor wi' two sweatin' wheelers in twentieth year o' the match."

By this time Dick had received from the tapster his second order, a tankard of old ale, laced with a surreptitious noggin of unsweetened gin.

"And what-like nature o' a nag may this Tod be?" he asked, speaking with so easy a familiarity, and holding the pewter so invitingly that Ned Blossom responded as to an old friend.

"Gradely bit o' stuff sure-ly," he replied. "And do love to fill his collar; but sulky-like he's been on t' road this day, wi' Fancy doin' nowt to share."

"Then leave Fancy in staable," said Dick, "and drive owd Tod unicorn into Ecclesthorpe wi' style."

Ned Blossom chuckled foolishly, and took the tankard Dick was offering, handle free, to his fingers.

"Like t' owd flea-bitten mare used to stand bottom o' Church Hill out o' Water Street, waitin' for t' bus comin'. They'd take the bar offen 'er back, hitch it to pole, an' away she'd go, scratchin' and scramblin' up to moor, like cat on roof-tiles. Ha! ha!" laughed Ned, and took a pull from the pewter. "But, say, who be you, standin' drinks like an owd friend?"

"Forgotten Doncaster races, nineteen five, hast tha, Ned? Well, Ah'm pained in my choicest feelin's. Here Ah finds 'ee in misfortune, order the stuff tha needs, pay for it, give 'ee good counsel and call 'ee Ned, and 'tis not till ale's drownin' t' sadness of 'ee where it bides, that 'ee call to mind you've forgotten Sam Bunce."

"Sam'l—ay, Sam'l Ah remembers. 'Twas t' Bunce as came 'ard like. But nineteen five? Challacombe's Leger, that was. Ay, Bunce fits into it. This ale clears the wits wunnerful."

Dick was at the bar, money passing to the tapster.

"There's another, owd cock, where that came from," he said, turning to Blossom. "Mebbe the next pint'll make 'ee call to mind how Challacombe's win cleaned me out—and me bound to get south away to Coventry?"

"Ay," said Ned again, politely remembering all that he was told. "See'd 'ee off by t' train, I did."

"Good old Blossom you be," said Dick, laughing kindly, "sayin' nowt o' the two jimmies you lent to get me home—an' us both that full we forgot all about where I was to send the blunt! But it's not Sam Bunce'll forget what he owes a man, and Ah knew as Ah'd meet 'ee again."

And he pushed three one-pound notes into the fuddled Ned's hand, who saw no reason in denying a friend of this kind.

"'Most gone out o' my head, the money," he muttered. "But Ah knew 'ee meant paying."

Then, as he awkwardly separated the notes, puzzling over the third, "Bit of interest for the waitin'," said Dick. "Put 'em away, while I go and get that Tod Sloan hitched single to lead your pair."

"I'll never drive 'im," objected Ned mournfully. "Ah've been turned all ends up, wi' this 'ere 'appening. Tod, 'e'll turn an' laugh at me."

"'Tis easy, owd man, if you keep 'im canterin' from start."

"Tried 'im tandem once, they did—oh, Gawd!"

"What you needs, owd Ned, is a kip, e'en if 'ee can't sleep. Who's Captain of o' this St. Asaph's cricketin' lot?"

"Rev'runt Mallaby—Dixon Mallaby. Gradely chap. Champion bat 'e be, nobbut 'e's a parson."

"Then I'll drive 'em," said Dick, "and you get a lift o'er to Ecclesthorpe later, an' tool 'em home. 'Long about that time you'll be rested, an' Tod'll be after his oats."

Blossom nodded, lifting his tankard and waving it on the way to his mouth, in feeble farewell.

As he went out Dick glanced sideways at Amaryllis. The sparkle in her eyes stopped him.

"Oh, daddy!" she murmured, "what a liar you are!"

"Cha-ampion!" said Dick, adding, as he left her: "Rubberneck!"

Already the cricketers were gathering about the rear of the brake, amongst them a gentleman.

To him Dick touched his hat.

"T' driver, sir, be o'ercome with near leader fallin' la-ame. He be an owd pal. Seems me tryin' t' buck 'im oop's gone wrong way down. So be you offers no objection, sir, I'll drive 'ee myself. Sam'l Bunce I'm called, and 'tis Ecclesthorpe where us wants to go."

The Reverend Mr. Dixon Mallaby looked him up and down with good-humoured scrutiny.

"I can't object to being pulled out of a hole," he replied. "And I don't think I should enjoy driving Mr. Grudger's cattle myself."

"Then if ye'll bid landlord have Ned Blossom sent on t' Ecclesthorpe when he be sober, I'll get t' three-cornered team hitched up."

And Dick went towards the stable, but turned back.

"Ought t' 'ave said, sir," he explained, "as I'll drive 'ee, so be as there's room for my daughter."

"The pretty girl on the bench there? Why, of course there's room. Does she want to see the match?"

"Doctor's orders she's to take all the fresh air there be, sir, and we're paying for't in shoe-leather. By same token, she looks after me too. Wouldn't let me out 'lone to-day, 'cos yesterday Ah went too free, an' got into a bit o' rough house."

"I see," said the clergyman. "That's a nasty cut on your cheek."

Dick laughed.

"One o' them others got a worse," he answered, and went in search of Tod Sloan.