Wilson looked at his friend keenly. “So you are going, sir?” he said. “Yes, I have ordered the coach at seven. We have no time to be married in England.” Wilson screwed up his lips and blew forth an expressive stream of smoke. “What, you are going to be married!” “Yes. The girl’s husband is dead.” “The devil he is!” “There has been a tussle between Garston’s smugglers and the King’s men; the fellow Grimshaw was shot in the scrimmage.” A look of most unchristian satisfaction spread itself over the painter’s face. He stepped forward and held out his hand. “I congratulate you, sir—I congratulate you.” “Thanks, Dick.” “The stumbling-block is removed out of the path of propriety. And why, if I may ask you, must you be in such an infatuated hurry to be gone?” “There are reasons, Dick, that I cannot divulge to you.” “Snub me, sir, snub me if I seem too forward. You can come by a license in a few days; there must be some obliging surrogate in the neighborhood. At the worst you can travel up to London, march to Doctors’ Commons, and secure a proper passport to the seventh heaven.” Jeffray, pacing to and fro with his shoulders squared and the heels of his shoes coming down squarely on the polished floor, shook his head, and refused the suggestion. “I have my reasons, Dick,” he said, “and I have thought the whole thing through for myself. Some years ago old Sugg could have married us here in my own house, and for my sake I should like to see Lord Hardwicke and his grandmotherly legislation damned. I want to get the girl away from all the pother that will be brewing, to save her from the tongues of our most Christian friends. To-morrow we drive to Lewes; the next day to the sea.” Wilson rammed down the tobacco in his pipe with the end of his little finger, relit it at the candle, and puffed on reflectively. “Well, sir,” he said, “I should like to know how you rescued the lady.” And Jeffray told him, all save the way in which Dan Grimshaw met his death. It was well after midnight when Peter Gladden lighted Jeffray to his room. Portmanteaus and valises were scattered about, some half filled, others yawning for the white linen, breeches, silk stockings, and clothes that covered the floor in confusion. Jeffray insisted on Gladden completing the packing before he went to bed. He had already discovered a polite and voiceless antagonism in the old man’s manner, as though Gladden persisted in believing that the romance was but the madness of an hour. He helped the butler to fill and strap the valises, and then dismissed him, ordering him to wake him at five.