Jacob, sleepy-eyed and desperately hungry, tumbled out of the train, a few mornings later, on to a lone stretch of platform, to find himself confronted by an exceedingly pleasant sight. Only a few yards away, on the other side of some white palings, Lady Mary, in a tartan skirt, light coat and tartan tam-o’-shanter, was seated in a four-wheeled dogcart, doing her best to control a pair of shaggy, excited ponies.

“Come along, Mr. Pratt,” she called out, “and jump in as quickly as you can. These little beggars aren’t properly broken. The men here will look after your luggage.”

Jacob vaulted lightly over the paling and clambered up by her side.

“Capital!” she laughed. “Now I shall see what your nerves are like.”

Jacob took off his hat and drew in a long breath of the fresh morning air.

“I don’t think you’re going to frighten me,” he said. “What a country!”

Almost directly they turned off the main road into what was little better than a cart track, across a great open moor, dotted everywhere with huge granite stones, marvellous clumps of heather and streaks of gorse. The sky was perfectly blue, and the wind came booming up from where the moorland seemed to drop into the sea. There were no rubber tyres on the wheels, and apparently no springs to speak of on the cart. They swayed from side to side in perilous fashion, went down into ruts, over small boulders of stone, through a stretch of swamp, across a patch of stones, always at the same half gallop. Lady Mary looked down and smiled at the enjoyment in her companion’s face.

“You’ve passed the first test,” she declared, “but then I knew you would. I brought Mr. Montague along here yesterday morning, and he cried like a child.”

“Mr. Who?” Jacob gasped.

“Mr. Montague and a friend of his. They came down with father last night. Perfectly abominable men. I hope you won’t leave me to their tender mercies for a single moment, Mr. Pratt.”

To Jacob, the warmth seemed to have gone from the sunlight, and the tearing wind was no longer bringing him joy. Up above him, the long white front of Kelsoton Castle had come into view. His wonderful holiday, then, had come to this—that he must walk, minute by minute, in fear of his liberty, perhaps his life. He was to spend the days he had looked forward to so much in this lonely spot with the men who were his sworn enemies. He looked behind him for a moment. The train by which he had come had disappeared long ago across a dark stretch of barren moor. Escape, even if he had thought of it, was cut off.

“I gather that you don’t care much for Mr. Montague, either,” she remarked, flicking one of the pony’s ears.

Jacob roused himself.

“Not exactly my choice of a holiday companion,” he admitted.

She leaned towards him.

“You are only going to have one companion,” she told him. “I have demanded your head upon a charger—or rather your body in tennis flannels—for the rest of the day. The others are all going for a picnic.”

“Is that fellow Maurice somebody coming down?” Jacob asked anxiously.

“He hasn’t even been asked,” she assured him, with a flash of her blue eyes. “Here we are at the first lodge. Now for a gallop up the avenue.”

The Marquis in kilts, the very prototype of the somewhat worn Scottish chieftain of ancient lineage, welcomed his visitor on the threshold, from which the great oak doors had been thrown back.

“So sorry we haven’t the bagpipes,” he apologised, as he shook Jacob’s hand. “We shall get into form in a day or two. Now you’ll have a bath and some breakfast, won’t you? Your things will be up in a few moments. You’ll find some old friends here,” he added, as he piloted Jacob across the huge, bare hall, “but my daughter tells me that she claims you for tennis—to-day, at any rate.”

Everything seemed cheerful and reassuring. His room looked straight out on to a magnificent, rock-strewn sea. The bathroom which opened from it was a model of comfort and even luxury. The Marchioness welcomed him cordially, later on, and Mr. Dane Montague and Mr. Hartwell seemed very harmless in their ill-chosen country clothes, and ingratiating almost to the point of fulsomeness. Lady Mary glanced approvingly at Jacob’s tennis flannels.

“I’m sure you’ll be far too good for me,” she sighed, as she gave him his coffee. “My racquet’s simply horrible, too. It’s three years old and wants restringing badly.”

“I hope you won’t think it a liberty,” Jacob said simply, “but I had to call at Tate’s to get one of mine which I’d had restrung, and I saw such a delightfully balanced lady’s racquet that I ventured to bring it down. I thought you might play with it, at any rate, if you didn’t feel like doing me the honour of accepting it.”

“You dear person!” she exclaimed joyfully. “If father and mother weren’t here, and my mouth weren’t full of scone, I believe I should kiss you. There isn’t anything in the world I wanted so much as a Tate racquet.”

“Very thoughtful and kind of Mr. Pratt, I am sure,” the Marchioness echoed graciously.

Jacob was never quite sure as to the meaning of that day, on which he and Lady Mary were left almost entirely alone, and the others, starting for an excursion soon after breakfast, did not return until an hour before dinner. They played tennis, bathed, played tennis again, lounged in a wonderful corner of a many-hundred-year-old garden, and afterwards sailed for a couple of hours in a little skiff which Lady Mary managed with the utmost skill. Sunburnt, tired, but completely happy, Jacob watched the returning carriages with scarcely an atom of apprehension.

“I think,” he declared, “that this has been one of the happiest days of my life.”

“That is a great deal to say, Mr. Pratt,” said Lady Mary.

She seemed suddenly to have lost her high spirits. He looked at her almost in surprise. A queer little impulse of jealousy crept into his brain.

“You are tired,” he said,—“or is it that you are thinking of some one else?”

She shook her head.

“I felt a little shiver,” she confided. “I don’t know why. I loathe those two men father has here, and I have an idea, somehow, that they don’t like you.”

“I have more than an idea about that,” he answered half lightly. “I believe they’d murder me if they could. You’ll protect me, won’t you, Lady Mary?”

“I will,” she answered quite gravely.

Nevertheless, the rest of the day passed without any untoward event. No one could have been more polite or harmless than Mr. Dane Montague at dinner; no one, except that he drank a little more wine than was good for him, more genial than Joe Hartwell. They played snooker pool, a game at which Jacob excelled, after dinner, and not one of the party made the least objection when Jacob excused himself early and retired to his room. He locked his door, and, sitting down by the open window, lit a last cigarette before turning in. Before him was the bay with its rock-strewn shore, and the quaint little tower, said to be six hundred years old, situated on a little island about fifty yards from the shore. On either side two heather-covered slopes, strewn with rocks, tumbled almost to the sea; and beyond, the ocean. The view was wonderful, the air soft and delicious. It was an hour or more later before Jacob turned reluctantly away. He was about to take off his dinner coat when he heard a soft yet firm knocking at his door. The old fears rushed back. It was well past midnight. The great house seemed strangely silent. The servants’ wing was far out of hearing. Jacob felt a curious sensation of friendlessness. The knocking was repeated. He hesitated for a moment and then crossed the room.

“Who’s there?” he demanded.

“I, your host,” was the low reply,—“Delchester. Let me in for a moment, Pratt.”

Jacob unlocked the door, opened it to admit his host, and closed it again. Somewhat to his surprise, the Marquis himself turned the key. He was looking grave and a little perturbed.

“Pratt,” he said, “you will forgive my intrusion, but you are a guest in my house, and I feel that I have a somewhat painful duty to perform.”

“Painful?” Jacob repeated.

“Painful because it will seem like a breach of hospitality, which it is not,” the Marquis continued. “I am here, Pratt, to beg that you will leave my house early to-morrow morning.”

“But I have only just arrived!” Jacob exclaimed. “What have I done?”

“You have done nothing,” his host assured him. “Your deportment has been in every respect exemplary, and believe me I regret very much the position I am obliged to take up. But let me add that it is entirely in your own interests. I have become aware of certain designs on the part of Mr. Dane Montague and his friend, which would make your further stay here, to say the least of it, dangerous.”

“This is very kind of you, Lord Delchester,” Jacob said, “but doesn’t it seem to you that, if this is the case, the persons who ought to leave are Mr. Dane Montague and Hartwell?”

“You are quite right,” the Marquis acknowledged. “You are absolutely right. But I will be frank with you. I am under great obligations to Mr. Dane Montague, obligations which I expect will be increased rather than diminished. I am exceedingly anxious not to quarrel with him. I cannot possibly countenance the scheme which he and his friend have on foot against you, so under the circumstances my only alternative is to beg you to leave by the first train to-morrow morning.”

Jacob sighed. Somehow or other, the dangers which had failed to materialise had become small things.

“I can only do as you desire, Marquis,” he consented. “For myself, I am not afraid. I am perfectly content to take my chance.”

The Marquis shook his head.

“There is too much cunning on the other side,” he declared. “The struggle would not be equal. You will be called at six o’clock, and I shall give myself the pleasure of breakfasting with you at half-past six downstairs. And, I have a further favour to ask you. I do not wish my wife or daughter to be aware of the circumstances which have led to my having to make you this regrettable request. I should be glad if you would write a line, say to my daughter, regretting that you are compelled to return to town on business.”

Jacob sighed once more, sat down and wrote as desired. His host thrust the note into his pocket.

“I wish you good night,” he said. “We shall meet in the morning, and, if I might ask it, would you make as little noise as possible in your movements? I do not wish those fellows to know that you are leaving until you are safe in the train. Your luggage can be sent after you.”

The Marquis made a dignified exit, and Jacob, with a shrug of the shoulders, undressed and tumbled into bed. On the whole, he was surprised to find that his chief sensation was one of disappointment. When he was called in the morning and found the sunshine filling the room, he felt half inclined to make a further appeal to his host’s hospitality. The Marquis gave him little opportunity, however. He was fully dressed and presided with dignity at a bountiful breakfast. He was looking a little tired, and he confessed that he had slept badly.

“I find myself,” he told Jacob, as the meal was concluded, “in an exceedingly painful situation. I have never before had to ask a guest to leave my house, and I resent very much the necessity.”

“I am willing to take my risk,” Jacob suggested.

The Marquis shook his head.

“You do not know what the risks are,” he answered. “I do. Come and walk outside with me, Mr. Pratt. We have half an hour before we leave. My people were more than ordinarily punctual.”

They strolled down towards the sea. Jacob asked curious questions about the little tower, and the Marquis unfastened a rope which held a flat-bottomed boat.

“I will take you across the channel,” he proposed, “and we will visit it. We have never had a visitor yet who has departed without seeing the keep. As a matter of fact, it is far older than the house, and quite a curiosity of architecture.”

They crossed the tidal channel, the Marquis paddling with slow but graceful strokes. Arrived on the other side, he secured the boat and led the way up a precipitous ledge to a nail-studded door, which he opened with a key from a bunch which he had drawn from his pocket.

“The downstairs rooms are scarcely safe,” he said, “there is so much fallen masonry, but the one I am going to show you is our great pride. You will find our visitors’ book there.”

He preceded his guest up a circular staircase, lit only by some narrow slits in the walls. At the top he opened another door and Jacob stepped into a great bare room. At the further end, through a broad aperture, was a magnificent view of the open sea. Jacob stepped forward to peer out. As he passed across the room, through another aperture, facing landwards, he saw the dogcart driven out of the stable yard, down the avenue, towards the moorland road which led to the station.

“Hullo,” he called out, “isn’t that my carriage over there?”

He turned around. He was alone in the room, and from outside came the ominous sound of the key turning in the lock. He strode towards it and shouted through the grating which was let into the top part of the door.

“Hi! Lord Delchester!”

The Marquis’s face appeared on the other side of the grating. He carefully shook the door, to be sure that it was locked.

“Mr. Pratt,” he said, “you enter now upon a new phase of your stay at Kelsoton Castle. If you look around the walls, you will find the initials of your predecessors carved in many different forms. I trust that you will make yourself as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.”

“Am I a prisoner?” Jacob asked.

The Marquis coughed.

“I prefer to follow the example of my ancestors and look upon you as a hostage awaiting ransom.”

“Then all that talk of yours about getting me out of danger was bunkum?”

“Your phraseology is offensively modern, but your conclusions are correct,” the Marquis acknowledged. “We could think of no other way in which you might be induced to enter the prison tower of Kelsoton, bearing in mind your suspicions of Montague and Hartwell.”

Jacob stood on tiptoe and looked through the bars. The mien of the Marquis was as composed as his tone. A paste stone in the buckle which fastened his tartan glittered in the dim light.

“Lord Delchester,” he said, “I have only a commoner’s ideas of hospitality. Is it in accordance with your sense of honour to decoy and imprison a guest in order to subject him to ill-treatment from a couple of curs like Montague and Hartwell?”

The Marquis was unperturbed.

“My dear Mr. Pratt,” he replied, “conduct which would perhaps not commend itself to you, with your more limited outlook, has been hallowed to the members of my family by the customs of a thousand years. The great Roderick Currie, my grandfather many times removed in the direct line, invited here once seven lairds of the neighbouring country for some marriage celebrations. You will find their initials carved somewhere near the right-hand window. Four of them escaped with the loss of half their estates. The remaining three, I regret to say, were unreasonable. Two of them were drowned and one was stabbed.”

“What are the terms of my release?” Jacob demanded.

“It is not within my province to discuss financial details,” the Marquis answered stiffly. “Mr. Montague will probably visit you during the day. I bid you good morning.”