Sir John, deep-plunged in gloomy abstraction, was suddenly aroused by the noisy entrance of two travellers, very elegant gentlemen who, cramped from their chaise, stamped and yawned and stretched, and damned the dust, the road, the inn, the landlord and all creation save themselves. Loudest of the twain was a tall, youngish man who wore a stupendous periwig, a gentleman very small as to eyes and large as to teeth that gleamed between the lips of a heavy mouth. To them presently came the landlord, who, with many profound obeisances and servile excuses, begged them to follow him to a chamber more suited to their nobilities. Left alone, Sir John sat legs outstretched, chin on breast, staring at the toes of his dusty riding-boots, lost once more in gloomy retrospection of the last five years, his dejection ever deepening, until he was aroused for the second time, as from the other side of the partition behind his chair rose a man’s chuckling laugh, the sound of desperate struggling, a woman’s scream. Sir John arose and, stepping out into the passage, threw open the door of an adjoining chamber and saw this: Upon a roomy settle the gentleman in the large toupet and upon his knees, struggling wildly in the merciless clasp of his arms, the girl Rose. Sir John’s serenity vanished, his habitual languor changed to vehement action: ensued the quick, light stamp of a foot, a glitter of darting steel and the gentleman’s lofty periwig, transfixed upon Sir John’s unerring sword-point, was whisked into a distant corner. Then Sir John spoke: “Monsieur,” said he softly, “favour me by releasing your so charming captive.” Next moment she was free, and, shrinking to the wall, saw Sir John’s face quite transfigured, the mobile lips grimly set, the delicate nostrils a-quiver, eyes fierce and threatening as his sword. “Sir,” he continued in the same gentle tone, “permit me to tell you that I do not like your face—it irritates me! Pray have the kindness to remove it, therefore—take it hence or——” “What the devil!” exclaimed the wigless gentleman, getting upon his legs. “Rose,” said Sir John, “child, pray leave us!” For a moment she hesitated then, uttering an inarticulate cry, fled from the room, and Sir John closed the door. “Now, sir,” quoth he, saluting the gentleman with an airy flourish of his weapon, “if your friend yonder will be so obliging as to help push this table into the corner we can settle our little affair quite comfortably, I think.” “Damnation!” exclaimed the wigless gallant, and, clapping hand to sword, half drew it, then checked and stood at gaze. When next he spoke his tone was altogether different: “You ... I think I have the honour to address Sir John Dering?” “The same, sir.” The gentleman sheathed his sword and bowed. “My name is Scarsdale, sir,” said he. “I had the pleasure of meeting you in Paris lately—at the Marquise de Sauvray’s rout, if you remember?” “I do not, sir.”