"No," replied Peckover subtly. "I have made it all right about that. Told her there was a mistake and I was not the rightful heir." "That was smart of you," Gage said with gloomy approval. "Well, what's the trouble, then. The lady doesn't expect me to marry her, does she?" "Yes," answered Peckover with intensity, "she does." "What?" Gage nearly landed out of bed in his surprise. "Me?" Then laughed incredulously. "She says she has come six thousand miles to be Lady Quorn and she is going to be Lady Quorn." "The deuce she is. How is she going to manage that?" "By force." "What?" Gage shouted. "Marry me by force?" "Yes," answered Peckover seriously. "You see, she has brought her brother with her, a dare-devil rampaging brute of a bush-ranger, six foot three tall, and broad in proportion, who sticks at nothing but your favourite vital part with a bowie knife." "I'd like to see him," Gage observed scornfully "You will, if you get out of bed and come downstairs," returned Peckover impressively. "Also you will have an opportunity of remarking the havoc he has made with the fire-irons." "What? Fire-irons?" "He has been snapping a few pokers and tongs just to show what he will do with you when he catches you." "What absurd rot," Gage said with rising exasperation. "I never had anything to do with the brute's sister." "But you have got to marry her," rejoined Peckover quite seriously, "or take the consequences." "Oh, have I?" "Yes; you had better stop in bed." "Had I?" Gage exclaimed, flinging off the clothes. "I rather think I'll get up and hand the ruffian over to the police, as you don't seem to have the _nous_ to do it." "Not I," returned Peckover shrewdly. "Not quite such a fool. Once open police-court proceedings, and our little arrangement will come out and be spoilt, even if nothing else happens." "Well, what are we to do?" Gage demanded, recognizing the weight of his friend's objection. "You stop in bed," said Peckover, with an air of authority based upon expediency. "D----d if I do," Gage retorted. "If you don't, you'll have to," replied Peckover with truth underlying paradox. "A fortnight of the downy is better than six months of the plank." "What, stop here for a fortnight?" Gage cried wrathfully. "It's a regular take in. A rollicking time I'm having for my money; cold-shouldered, half-drowned, and now tucked up in this beastly bed for weeks. Where does Lord Quorn come in?" "Lord Quorn," observed Peckover sententiously, "will go out if Mr. Carnaby Leo gets hold of him. He has got a museum at home of pickled ears, and eyes and noses, et cetera, of which he has deprived certain parties who didn't do as he told them. After all," he added persuasively, "it is better to stop in bed with the schedule of your features complete than to get up for a rollick and find some of the items missing."