From that time onward, notwithstanding Jacob’s unbroken composure, time began to hang heavily. Towards evening, he pulled up one of his strings and found sandwiches and whisky enough to keep him going. He received no more visitors, friendly or otherwise, and he listened in vain until nightfall for the sound of Lady Mary’s boat. In the morning, however, he was awakened early by the sound of her whistle below. The room was half full of grey mist. Leaning out of the aperture, he could scarcely distinguish her form as she stood up in the boat, and in the distance he could hear foghorns from passing steamers blowing.

“How are you?” she asked anxiously.

“Right as a trivet,” he assured her. “Wish I had a mirror, though, to see how I look in a beard.”

She scrutinised his appearance and laughed softly, balancing herself easily against the oar which she had stretched out to the side of the tower. The moisture of the sea was upon her face and hair. A very becoming peignoir imperfectly concealed her bathing dress.

“I never realised before what a spick-and-span person you were,” she observed. “You are beginning to look a little dishevelled, aren’t you? Would you really like me to bring you a mirror and some shaving things?”

“Are you beginning to make fun of me?” he asked, leaning a little farther out.

She shook her head, and he realised suddenly that there was a note of tragedy underneath her assumed cheerfulness. He went on talking desperately, trying not to notice the quiver of her lips.

“Because if you are I shall slip down and do my famous dive act. I don’t believe in your sunken rocks.”

“I forbid you to try,” she said firmly.

“I am in your hands,” he acquiesced.

“I couldn’t come last night,” she explained. “That beast of a Montague watched me all the evening.—Now let me get your breakfast up, in case we are interrupted.”

There followed five minutes of the new sport, after which Jacob found himself with a thermos flask filled with coffee, a packet of hard-boiled eggs, and more sandwiches.

“I should think that ought to see you through,” she said. “Things will probably happen to-day.”

“What sort of things?” he demanded eagerly.

She shook her head.

“I shan’t tell you anything! Only I’m doing my best.”

He leaned a little farther out of the aperture.

“You’re an amazing person,” he declared. “I can’t tell you, Lady Mary, how grateful I feel to you. You’ve enabled me to keep my end up. I should have hated being robbed by those blackguards—Hartwell and Montague, I mean,” he concluded hastily.

She sighed.

“Really, I have been rather unselfish,” she ruminated. “I suppose we should all have been quite flush for a month or two if this little adventure had come off.”

“Adventure?” Jacob repeated dubiously.

“That’s just how it seems to father,” she continued. “I suppose you wonder I’m not more embarrassed when I speak about him. I’m not a bit. As he remarked himself, he’s only trying to modernise the predatory instincts of a governing clan.”

“That’s how he looks at it, is it?” Jacob murmured.

She nodded.

“It’s in the atmosphere up here.”

“How’s the Glasgow Daisy?” he enquired, after a moment’s awkward pause.

“Broken ankle,” she told him. “They’re in a terrible state. He’ll have to cancel all his fights, and I heard Mr. Montague say last night that it will cost them the best part of a thousand pounds to settle with him.... Listen!”

A moment’s silence, then Lady Mary settled down to her oars.

“Voices!” she exclaimed. “I’m off.”

Jacob looked through the aperture on the landward side and saw pleasant things. First of all, through the mist, loomed up the figure of Montague, approaching at the double. Behind came Felixstowe, rapidly gaining upon him.

“Hi, you,” the latter cried, as Montague stooped to unfasten the boat, “let that rope alone!”

Montague turned around and hesitated. His pursuer stood by his side.

“I’ll relieve you, my pretty fellow,” he said. “Hand over the key of the tower. Come along, now. Three seconds.”

Montague contemplated Felixstowe’s somewhat weedy but not unathletic form, exceeded the time and fell with his head in the water. His assailant took the key from his pocket as he staggered to his feet, unfastened the rope and paddled across the channel. A moment later there were hasty steps upon the stone stairs and the door with its iron grating was unlocked. Jacob advanced to meet his friend.

“Jacob, old thing!”

“Felix! By Jove, I’m glad to see you!”

The two men shook hands. There was a moment’s silence, a slightly dubious atmosphere. Welcome though it was, Felixstowe’s intervention had its embarrassing side.

“You’re looking pretty fit, old chap, except that you need a barber,” the latter remarked.

“Thanks to Lady Mary,” Jacob told his deliverer. “She’s been feeding me with a fishing rod from the seaward side.”

“Good little sport! It was she who sent me the telegram—put me up to the game, in fact. I warned you, Jacob.”

“I didn’t exactly expect to meet Mr. Montague up here!” was the somewhat grim reply.

“Most likely spot in the United Kingdom!—Shall we beat it? Got a car waiting, and we can catch the morning train from the junction if we hurry.”

They descended the steps in silence, and Jacob drew a little breath of relief as they entered the boat. Montague was sitting upon the sands with both hands pressed over his eye, as they landed. He shrank back when he saw Jacob.

“What’s become of the other one?” Jacob enquired.

“Your man Dauncey came up with me,” Lord Felixstowe explained. “I rang him up directly I got Mary’s telegram. We met Hartwell just starting to follow Montague. I hung round long enough to see that he was getting what he deserved, and then I came on.”

They met a triumphant Dauncey, a moment or two later.

“Given him his gruel?” Lord Felixstowe asked pleasantly.

“He’s lying in the blackberry bushes,” was the grim reply.

They approached the front door, where the motor-car was standing. The Marquis strolled out to meet them, with a pleasant smile. He was entirely free from embarrassment and he addressed Jacob courteously.

“Mr. Pratt,” he said, “the fortune of war has changed. Breakfast is served in the dining-room. Might I suggest a bath and a shave?”

Jacob lost his head.

“You damned rascal!” he exclaimed.

The Marquis’s eyebrows were slightly elevated. Otherwise he was unmoved.

“My dear sir,” he rejoined, with a gently argumentative air, “of course I am a rascal. Every one of my family, from the days of the Highland robber who founded it, has been a rascal. So are you a rascal, when the opportunity presents itself. We all fight for our own hand in varying ways. A touch of my ancestry has evolved this little scheme, whose lamentable failure I deplore. A touch of your ancestry, my dear Mr. Pratt, would without a doubt induce you to dispose of some of those wonderful oil shares of yours in a hurry to a poorer man, if you thought their value was going to decline. Just now I am faced with failure. I do not lose my temper. I offer you freshly broiled trout, a delicious salmon, some eggs and bacon, and hot coffee.”

Jacob looked at Lord Felixstowe, and Lord Felixstowe looked at him. Up from the landing stage came Lady Mary, singing gaily.

“What about it, old dear?” Felixstowe asked. “We can catch the eleven-twenty.”

“Call it tribute,” the Marquis suggested ingratiatingly, “the tribute of the beaten foe. My servant shall attend you at the bathroom, Mr. Pratt. Do not keep us waiting longer than you can help. And remember, between ourselves—between gentlemen—not a word about the matter to the Marchioness or Lady Mary.”

Breakfast at the Castle was a sufficiently cheerful meal, chiefly owing to the efforts of Jacob and the Marquis. Mr. Dane Montague came limping past the windows but made no attempt to join the party. Hartwell was reported locked in his room, and the Marchioness, who came a little late, seemed utterly unaware that anything unusual had happened.

“So glad to see you back again, Mr. Pratt,” she murmured. “I trust that you enjoyed your visit to your friends.”

“You are very kind,” Jacob replied, a little staggered.

“Mr. Pratt brings us bad news,” the Marquis intervened suavely. “He is compelled to return to London this morning.”

“Mary will be very disappointed,” the Marchioness observed. “She has been so looking forward to some more tennis.”

“If Mr. Pratt felt able to reconsider his decision,” her husband began—

“Impossible!” Jacob interrupted curtly. “There are considerations,” he added, “which I cannot altogether ignore.”

“Bit of an exodus, I should imagine,” Felixstowe remarked. “Our friend Mr. Hartwell was just ringing for a Bradshaw as I came down.”

“It is so difficult to amuse guests before the shooting begins,” the Marchioness sighed.

Dauncey ate his breakfast in almost stupefied silence. He found himself alone with Jacob for a moment in the hall afterwards.

“Have we all gone mad, Jacob?” he asked. “Or have you developed an hysterical sense of humour? Why haven’t we locked the old man up and sent for the police?”

“It’s the young ’un,” Jacob explained. “I like ’em both. Besides, what’s the use of making a fuss? You’ve punished Hartwell, Felixstowe has settled with Dane Montague, and they’ve the Glasgow Daisy to deal with between them.”

“It’s the old man I can’t understand,” Dauncey confessed. “He sits there like a lay figure of courtesy and kindliness. To listen to him, one would believe that he would rather die than have a guest ill-used.”

Their host himself, accompanied by his son, came suddenly out of the breakfast room. For the first time, the former appeared discomposed. He came at once to Jacob and addressed him without preamble.

“Mr. Pratt,” he said, “I have only this moment properly understood the very disgraceful and unworthy attempt on the part of my two other guests to carry out a scheme of private vengeance upon you whilst subject to the incarceration necessitated by my plans.”

“You are referring,” Jacob observed coldly, “to the affair of the Glasgow Daisy?”

“I beg, sir,” the Marquis continued, “that you will acquit me of all complicity in that most unwarrantable and improper attempt to inflict punishment upon you. For your incarceration I accept the responsibility. That you were kept short of food was a natural adjunct to our enterprise. The other branch of the affair, however, humiliates me. I regret it extremely. I tender to you, Mr. Pratt, my apologies.”

Jacob bowed.

“I am very glad to hear,” he said, “that you were not a party to the most brutal portion of the plot. At the same time, to be quite frank with you, Marquis, I should have expected from you some expression of regret for your rather serious breach of hospitality. It is surely not a slight thing to starve and imprison an invited guest with the view of extorting money from him.”

The Marquis smiled tolerantly.

“The matter presents itself to you, naturally, Mr. Pratt, in a distorted light,” he observed. “I am quite sure that if I had been brought up in your environment, your point of view would be mine. You must remember, however, that we are now upon the soil where my forefathers for many generations kept together a great army of dependents by exacting tribute from those more richly endowed with this world’s goods. If you will look closely around you, Mr. Pratt, you will see that even the Castle, which has been the property of my family for seven hundred years, is sadly in need of repair. We lack too many modern conveniences. My garden wall needs fresh buttresses, an engine house is necessary to pump water from the well—in short, the estate needs money. Not having it, I can only adopt the general principle which is common to all mankind. I endeavour to procure it from others.”

“The prisons of England,” Dauncey remarked, “are filled with temporary visitors who have imbibed the same ideas.”

The Marquis gazed at Dauncey as though confronted by some new sort of natural curiosity to whose appearance in the world he was inclined to extend a mild but unenthusiastic welcome.

“You have more apprehension than your friend, I am sure, Mr. Pratt,” he said. “If you will excuse me, I will see that the arrangements for your departure are in progress.”...

It seemed to Jacob that Lady Mary was keeping purposely out of his way. At a few minutes before the time for their departure, she appeared, however, and drew him to one side down one of the garden walks.

“Mr. Pratt,” she said, “I don’t know what you’re thinking of all of us.”

“I know what I’m thinking about one of you, at any rate,” he declared gratefully. “I should have been most unhappy if I had been compelled to leave without thanking you from the bottom of my heart for your kindness.”

“I am more thankful than I can tell you that I was able to do what I did,” she assured him earnestly, “and I want you, if you can, to set that as much as possible against my father’s shocking breach of the laws of hospitality. Only he can’t help it, poor man. He has a whimsical attitude towards life which seems unchangeable.”

“I shall forget it,” Jacob promised. “Thanks to you, nothing serious occurred.”

“There is one thing more,” she went on. “Believe me, I am not approaching this in the same spirit as my father, but if by any chance you found yourself able to do anything for Jack—in the shape of employment, I mean—it would be so good for him and such a relief to me.”

“I shall be going to America very shortly,” Jacob reflected, “in which case I shall need some one to help me with my correspondence. Dauncey will have to stay at home to look after my interests here.”

“That would be wonderful,” she declared enthusiastically. “Jack really isn’t a fool—in fact he is quite clever in some things—but he does need steadying down, and I’m so afraid that if nothing happens he will drift into taking life as casually as—as—”

“I understand,” Jacob interrupted. “Leave it to me, Lady Mary. Something shall be done, I promise you.”

The motor horn was sounding and they turned back. Jacob, notwithstanding the disgraceful treatment which he had received, was conscious of a curious unwillingness to take his place in the car and leave Kelsoton Castle behind him.

“You must let me know,” his companion begged softly, “how things go on with you and Miss Bultiwell.”

“There will never be anything to tell you,” he assured her. “I am becoming quite confident about that.”

She smiled at him enigmatically. Her footsteps, too, were lagging.

“Our love affairs don’t seem to be prospering, do they?” she sighed.

Jacob leaned a little towards her.

“I should be almost content,”—

Dauncey interrupted them a little ruthlessly. He held his watch in his hand.

“This is the only train to-day, Jacob,” he broke in, “and Lord Felixstowe says that we shall barely catch it.”

Jacob climbed into the car. The Marquis bade them all a punctilious and courteous farewell. Lady Mary waved her hand and swung away down the little path that led to the sea. When Jacob looked back, there was no one standing upon the Castle steps but the Marquis, bland, courteous, a very striking and distinguished figure. So ended Jacob’s visit, momentous in more ways than one.