“If it had come at any other time!” he kept on repeating. “But now, with Veronica to think of!------ You take me, Johnny, don’t you?” My companions rode silently. After we had passed the houses of a little village a heavy mist fell upon us, white, damp, and clogging. Ralph reined his horse beside mine. “I’m sorry,” he began again, “I’m miserably sorry I got you into this scrape. I swear I wouldn’t have had it happen, not for a thousand pounds--not for ten.” “It doesn’t matter,” I said cheerfully. “Ah, but,” Rooksby said, “you’ll have to leave the country for a time. Until I can arrange. I will. You can trust me.” “Oh, he’ll have to leave the country, for sure,” Rangsley said jovially, “if he wants to live it down. There’s five-and-forty warrants out against me--but they dursent serve ’em. But he’s not me.” “It’s a miserable business,” Ralph said. He had an air of the profoundest dejection. In the misty light he looked like a man mortally wounded, riding from a battle-field. “Let him come with us,” the musical voice of Carlos came through the mist in front of us. “He shall see the world a little.” “For God’s sake hold your tongue!” Ralph answered him. “There’s mischief enough. He shall go to France.” “Oh, let the young blade rip about the world for a year or two, squire,” Rangsley’s voice said from behind us. In the end Ralph let me go with Carlos--actually across the sea, and to the West Indies. I begged and implored him; it seemed that now there was a chance for me to find my world of romance. And Ralph, who, though one of the most law-respecting of men, was not for the moment one of the most valorous, was wild to wash his hands of the whole business. He did his best for me; he borrowed a goodly number of guineas from Rangsley, who travelled with a bag of them at his saddle-bow, ready to pay his men their seven shillings a head for the run. Ralph remembered, too--or I remembered for him--that he had estates and an agent in Jamaica, and he turned into the big inn at the junction of the London road to write a letter to his agent bidding him house me and employ me as an improver. For fear of compromising him we waited in the shadow of trees a furlong or two down the road. He came at a trot, gave me the letter, drew me aside, and began upbraiding himself again. The others rode onwards. “Oh, it’s all right,” I said. “It’s fine--it’s fine. I’d have given fifty guineas for this chance this morning--and, Ralph, I say, you may tell Veronica why I’m going, but keep a shut mouth to my mother. Let her think I’ve run away--eh? Don’t spoil your chance.” He was in such a state of repentance and flutter that he could not let me take a decent farewell. The sound of the others’ horses had long died away down the hill when he began to tell me what he ought to have done. “I knew it at once after I’d let you go. I ought to have kept you out of it. You came near being murdered. And to think of it--you, her brother--to be------”