‘No, not yet; I am only feeling my way. I don’t mind telling you what brought me into notice with the Duke. He was ill last autumn when down at Endsleigh for the shooting, and his physician was sent for. I met the doctor at the Bedford Inn at Tavistock; some of us of the faculty had an evening together, and his Grace’s condition was discussed, casually of course. I said nothing. We were smoking and drinking rum and water. There was something in his Grace’s condition which puzzled his physician, and he clearly did not understand how to treat the case. _I_ knew. I have instinct. Some rum had been spilled on the table; I dipped the end of my pipe in it, and scribbled a prescription on the mahogany. I saw the eye of the doctor on it. I have reason to believe he used my remedy. It answered. He is not ungrateful. I say no more. A city set on a hill cannot be hid. Beer Alston is a bushel covering a light. Wait.’ Barbara said nothing. She rode on, deep in thought. The surgeon jogged at her side, his protruding water-blue eyes peering in all directions. ‘You think your sister will not be penniless?’ he said. ‘I am certain she will not. Now that my aunt has provided for me, Eve will have Morwell after my father’s death, and I am sure she is welcome to what comes to me from my aunt till then.’ ‘Halt!’ exclaimed the surgeon. Barbara drew rein simultaneously with Mr. Coyshe. ‘Who are you there, watching, following us, skulking behind bushes and hedges?’ shouted Coyshe. ‘What is it?’ asked Miss Jordan, surprised and alarmed. The surgeon did not answer, but raised to his shoulder a stick he carried. ‘Answer! Who are you? Show yourself, or I fire!’ ‘Doctor Coyshe,’ exclaimed Barbara, ‘forbear in pity!’ ‘My dear Miss Jordan,’ he said in a low tone, ‘set your mind at rest. I have only an umbrella stick, of which all the apparatus is blown away except the catch. Who is there?’ he cried, again presenting his stick. ‘Once, twice!’—click went the catch. ‘If I call three and fire, your blood be on your own head!’ There issued in response a scream, piercing in its shrillness, inhuman in its tone. Barbara shuddered, and her horse plunged. A mocking burst of laughter ensued, and then forth from the bushes into the road leaped an impish boy, who drew a bow over the catgut of a fiddle under his chin, and ran along before them, laughing, leaping, and evoking uncouth and shrill screams from his instrument. ‘A pixy,’ said the surgeon. ‘I knew by instinct one was dodging us. Fortunately I could not lay my hand on a riding whip this morning, and so took my old umbrella stick. Now, farewell. So you think Miss Eve will have Morwell, and the matrimonial stool its golden leg? That is right.’ CHAPTER XV. AT THE QUAY.