“Glory be to God,” my Lord was saying, in his richest brogue. “Will anyone catch me that young gentleman by the leg? He’s not safe to be loose. Trip him up, I tell you, or there’ll be murder done! Come back, Simpson, you _omadhaun_!” Pamela made a spring for the door; she had said that she would not have a hole made in her Jocelyn: heaven knew what catastrophe might not ensue were she not on the spot to prevent mischief with Bellairs, apt as tinder, and this young Simpson in his fury! She went like the wind down the passage, and across the bar, towards that spot in the courtyard whence arose sounds of struggle and fierce objurgation. She found a slim young gentleman in uniform locked in the embrace of Lord Kilcroney. My Lord was laughing so considerably that it threatened to invalidate his grip. The young officer’s countenance shocked Pamela, so disfigured was it by rage and jealousy. Even as she approached he wrenched himself free, and, leaping forward, all but knocked her down in his blind rush. Pamela’s body, however, was as well-balanced as her mind; she propped herself against the Inn porch and caught the outraged young husband vigorously by the arm. It was her words which really arrested him. “You are looking for Lady Selina, Mr. Simpson, sir; for your wife? She is waiting for you in the parlour.” He stared at her, his lips moving, his eyes starting, his whole begrimed, unshorn, exhausted countenance stamped with a wildness of despair. “Yes, sir.” Pamela slipped her firm clasp down to his shaky, ice-cold hand; her voice was as soothing as her touch: “Yes, sir, her Ladyship and I we came here together. Her Ladyship was good enough to accept my services on the road. I’m travelling back to business from Weymouth, it fitted in nicely. And Mr. Jocelyn Bellairs, coming to meet me at Salisbury--he and I being an engaged couple, if you will forgive my being so personal--that fitted in very nicely too, for he escorted us. Your lady’s very young to be travelling alone, sir----” Pamela knew that there is no better defence for the guilty than to reproach the innocent. “There now, me boy,” cried Kilcroney, taking up the cue, “didn’t I tell you it was the wrong scent you were after, altogether? Hadn’t ye me word for it that Colonel Endacott and Jasper had fixed up that little meeting at Blandford ever since the night of my Lady Kilcroney’s rout at Weymouth? And sure, when my Lady Selina walked into the Crown Inn, wasn’t Miss Pounce behind her? Miss Pounce will swear to that. And I’ll lay you me oath that she’s speaking truth, since it’s the one coach-load of it we all were.” But whether or no these assurances and plausibilities might have proved convincing to the inflamed brain of the injured husband, they were doomed to failure by the action of the Mad Brat herself. This impetuous young woman suddenly hurled herself into their midst and upon her husband’s breast, tears, kisses, passionate confession pouring from her.