Captain Trimble was naturally a man of violence, but although he would have liked very much to spoil Sir Richard’s handsome face, he wasted no more than a couple of minutes over this pleasing dream. Sir Richard, if it came to fisticuffs, would enjoy the encounter far more than would his assailant. A more determined assault, on a dark night, by a couple of stout men armed with clubs, might have a better chance of success, but even this scheme had a drawback. Sir Richard had been set upon twice before, by hardy rogues who planned to rob him. He had not been robbed, and he had not been attacked again. He was marked down by every cut-throat and robber in the Rogues’ Calendar as dangerous, one who carried pistols, and could draw and fire with a speed and a deadly accuracy which made him a most undesirable man to molest.
Regretfully; the Captain decided that Sir Richard must be left alone, for the present, at all events.
By this time the tapster had discovered the loss of Mr Brandon’s note. Everyone in the room disclaimed all knowledge of its whereabouts. Captain Trimble drained his can, and carried it over to the bar. As he set it down, he said: “Isn’t that a bit of paper I see?”
No one could see anything, but that might have been because the Captain bent so quickly to pick it up. When he straightened himself, the screw of paper was between his fingers. The tapster took it with a word of thanks, and gave it to one of the waiters, who had come into the taproom for a pint of burgundy, and told him to deliver it to Sir Richard. Captain Trimble, quite as well-pleased as Beverley had been, betook himself to the coffee-room, and ordered a sustaining meal.
Sir Richard, meanwhile, had returned to the inn. He found Pen awaiting him in the parlour, curled up in a big chair and eating an apple. “This passion for munching raw fruit!” he remarked. “You look a very urchin.”
She twinkled at him. “Well, I am hungry. Did you—did you have a pleasant day with my Aunt Almeria, sir?”
“I hope with all my heart,” said Sir Richard, eyeing her with some severity, “that you spent the day in the greatest possible discomfort. I wish it had rained.”
“I didn’t. I visited my home, and I went to all the particular places Piers and I used to hide in, when people wanted us to do our lessons. Only I hadn’t anything to eat.”
“I am glad,” said Sir Richard. “Do you know that I have not only found myself in a position where I was forced to lie, and dissemble, and practise the most shocking deceit, but I have also been obliged to consort for five hours with one of the most commonplace young cubs it has ever been my ill-fortune to meet?”
“I knew Fred would come with my aunt! Doesn’t he look just like a fish, sir?”
“Yes, a hake. But you cannot divert me from what I wish to say. Half an hour’s conversation with your aunt has convinced me that you are an unprincipled brat.”
“Did she say unkind things of me?” Miss Creed wrinkled her brow. “I don’t think I am unprincipled, precisely.”
“You are a menace to all law-abiding and respectable citizens,” said Sir Richard.
She seemed gratified. “I didn’t think I was as important as that.”
“Look what you have done to me!” said Sir Richard.
“Yes, but I don’t think you are very law-abiding or respectable,” objected Pen.
“I was once, but it seems a long time ago.”
She finished her apple. “Well, I am sorry you are feeling cross, for I think I should tell you something which you may not be pleased about.”
He looked at her with misgiving. “Let me know the worst!”
“It was the stammering-man,” said Pen, not very lucidly. “Of course, I quite see that I should have been more careful.”
“You mean Beverley Brandon. What has he been doing?”
“Well, you see, he came here. And just at that very same moment, I chanced to walk into the inn, and—and we met.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, not long ago! You were gone out. Only he seemed to know me.”
“Seemed to know you?”
“Well, he said surely I must be your nephew,” Pen explained.
Sir Richard had been listening to her with a gathering frown. He said now, with a grim note which she had not before heard in his voice: “Beverley knows very well that the only nephew I have is a child in short petticoats.”
“Oh, have you got a nephew?” enquired Pen, diverted.
“Yes. Never mind that. What did you reply?”
“Well, I think I was quite clever,” said Pen hopefully. Naturally, I knew who he must be, as soon as he spoke; and I guessed, of course, that he must know I am not your nephew. Because even if some people think I have no ingenuity, I am not at all stupid,” she added, with a darkling look.
“Does that rankle?” His countenance had relaxed a little. “Never mind! go on!”
“I said that in point of fact you were not my uncle, but I called you so because you were a great deal older than I. I said that you were my third cousin. Then he asked me why we had come to Queen Charlton, and I said it was on account of family affairs, though I would rather have pointed out that it was extremely ill-bred and inquisitive of him to ask me such questions. And after that he went away.”
“Did he indeed? Did he say what had brought him here in the first place?”
“No. But he gave me a message for you, which I did not quite like.”
“Well?”
“It sounded sinister to me,” said Pen, preparing him for the worst.
“I can well believe it.”
“And the more I think of it the more sinister it appears to me. He said I must present his compliments to you, and tell you that he perfectly understands your reason for coming to such a secluded spot.”
“The devil!” said Sir Richard.
“I was afraid you would not be excessively pleased,” Pen said anxiously. “Do you suppose that it means that he knows who I am?”
“Not that, no,” Sir Richard replied.
“Perhaps,” suggested Pen, “he guessed that I am not a boy?”
“Perhaps.”
She thought the matter over. “Well, I don’t see what else he could possibly have meant. But Jimmy Yarde never suspected me, and I conversed with him far more than I did with this disagreeable stammering-man. How very unfortunate it is that we should have met someone who knows you well!”
“I beg your pardon?” said Sir Richard, putting up his glass.
She looked innocently up at him. “On account of his being aware that you have no nephew or cousin like me, I mean.”
“Oh!” said Sir Richard, lowering the glass. “I see. Don’t let it worry you!”
“Well, it does worry me, because I see now that I have been imprudent. I should not have let you come with me. It has very likely placed you in an awkward situation.”
“That aspect of it had not occurred to me,” said Sir Richard, faintly smiling. “The imprudence was mine. I ought to have handed you over to your aunt at our first meeting.”
“Do you wish you had?” asked Pen wistfully.
He looked down at her for an instant. “No.”
“Well, I’m glad, because if you had tried to, I would have run away from you.” She lifted her chin from her cupped hands. “If you are not sorry to be here, do not let us give it another thought! It is so very fatiguing to go on being sorry about something which one has done. Did you order any dinner, sir?”
“I did. Duck and peas.”
“Good!” said Pen, with profound satisfaction. “Where has Aunt Almeria gone, do you suppose?”
“To Chippenham, and then to Cousin Jane.”
“To Cousin Jane? Good gracious, why?”
“To see whether you have taken refuge with her, I imagine.”
“With Cousin Jane!” Pen exclaimed. “Why, she is the most odious old woman, and takes snuff!”
Sir Richard, who had just opened his own box, paused. “Er—do you consider that an odious habit? he asked.