"Keep your veil down and don't say a word," said Mr. Darke to his companion after a backward glance through the open window. He drew his hat down over his brows and turned up the collar of his redingote about his ears, so that even had it been daylight little of his face would have been visible. It was not unlikely that the Sir Peter of whom mention had been made might do the same as he had done--throw the light of a lantern on the inmates of the chaise. Presently the pursuing chaise came up at a great pace, the post-boy lashing his horses freely, and, passing the other one, drew up suddenly some dozen yards ahead, straight across the narrow road, so as effectually to bar its progress and bring it to a stand. Mr. Darke put his head out of the window. "Post-boy, what is the meaning of this stoppage?" he called. "Why don't you go on?" "Can't do it, sir--road blocked by t'other shay." Before more could be said, Sir Peter himself came stalking up trembling with rage, followed by his servant with a lantern. "So, so! sir, your nefarious scheme has not succeeded; your villainous plot has miscarried, as it deserved to do," he stuttered, his words tumbling headlong over each other in his passion. "I'll have the law of you, sir, for this! You shall be taught that you cannot run off with a gentleman's ward with impunity! You shall be cast for damages, sir. Five thousand pounds--not one farthing less--damme!--But where is that niece of mine--the shameless hussy? I will----" "May I ask, sir, the meaning of this singular outrage?" demanded a grave, stern voice from the interior of the chaise. "If His Majesty's liege subjects are to be stopped on the highway by every inebriate brawler, it is indeed time for the hand of authority to intervene. I am myself in the Commission of Peace, and I must demand from you your name and address, sir, in order that further inquiry may be made into this most discreditable proceeding." But by this time the servant had directed the rays of his lantern into the interior of the chaise. Sir Peter stood like a man petrified. In the farther corner sat a plainly-dressed, thin, angular woman, bolt upright, and as rigid as a ramrod, who, although her face was hidden by a thick veil, no one in his senses would for a moment mistake for Miss Dulcie Peyton, and it was doubtless owing to the veil that he failed to recognize in her that young lady's maid, with whose features he was presumably not unfamiliar. Of the person who had addressed him little could be seen save a large aquiline nose and a pair of fierce black eyes. It was equally impossible, however, to confound him with Captain Pascoe.