She always declared afterwards that she had been as one guided. She did not pause to reconnoitre or hesitate at a turning. Fleet and light as a shadow, she raced through the alleys of the little town, deserted this Christmas night, till she came to a point on the main road which she knew Job Stallion must pass on his homeward way, and then she hid herself. She had not very long to wait before the beat of horses’ hoofs resounded on the frozen ground. Hell for leather, indeed! ’Twas the most egregious jog-trot that ever took lazy groom and unwilling horse from warm quarters on a Christmas night! Job Stallion let fly a terrified oath as Pamela rose out of the ditch and laid a hand upon his bridle. He was scarcely less alarmed when he discovered that he had to do with neither wraith nor highwaywoman, but with his master’s prize. She cut short his “darsents” and his whimpering expostulations very sternly. “I am going to ride pillion behind you, Job Stallion, and you must whip up that fat brute of a post-horse to something of a canter, for you’ve got to carry me back home before Sir Jasper can overtake us. Thank your stars, my lad,” she went on, “that the Lord has given you a chance of redeeming the night’s work, for I tell you it would have gone hard with any who had a hand in it. Men have been hanged for less!” She kept him busy with whip and spur till the old grey mare wheezed and bucketed along the road at a pace astonishing for her years and size. It was somewhere midway between Ashford and Pitfold that they crossed Mr. Bellairs riding towards them on his own rakish chestnut as if for a race. If Pamela’s heart beat high at sight of him she did not avow her pride and pleasure even to herself; if her bright, clear heat of anger and triumphant determination gave place to tender, womanly emotions, she betrayed no sign of them. She postponed explanations, and issued instructions to Mr. Bellairs as to Job Stallion in the accents of one who means they shall be carried out. “You will kindly ride a hundred paces behind me, Mr. Bellairs. I have no notion of having my name mixed up with yours or Sir Jasper’s this night. As for you, Job, hand me over that tablet. You can keep the guinea for yourself. And you will drop me, if you please, in the courtyard at Standish Hall, for ’tis not too late to join the dancers in the barn. And I mean there shall be no talk on this night’s work, if I can help it. “If you breathe a word, Job Stallion, you’ll wish you never were born, or my father’s name not Jeremy Pounce! And as for you, Mr. Bellairs, sir, you’ve won your wager--yes, I know all about it--so you owe me a good turn, I think, and all I ask for is silence, silence! My father’s a violent man, and it does no woman’s name any good--no, not even a poor milliner’s--to be made such sport of as mine betwixt you two gentlemen to-night. As for Sir Jasper, I warrant he’ll hold his tongue. He don’t cut so fine a figure!”