"Don't worry, dad, please," said Lady Eva. "I'm sorry I haven't got a purse, highwayman," she continued contemptuously, throwing back her thick veil to see what manner of man this could be, "but the few loose sixpences I have in my pocket are quite at your service." "You may keep them, madam," Cunningham replied, with as much dignity as the occasion would permit. "I do not ask for money. I simply want the loan of a peppercorn and golden horseshoe until the 29th." "By George, he must be an antiquarian highwayman or a curio-collector gone mad," said his lordship. "D'ye think, sir, I'll give you what I'm taking to the King?" "His Majesty shall have them, and from your hands, on the proper day. I simply ask for the loan of them till then." "You must think that I'm a fool," said the Earl. In an instant he had grabbed the hoop of one of the heavy acetylene lamps, and pulled it from its socket. "Take that, you blackguard!" he yelled, flinging it with all his force at the cyclist. Cunningham dodged the missile, which crashed to the ground with light extinguished. "Hands up, my lord," he shouted, "or I fire." The discomfited peer obeyed him. "You are quite at my mercy," said Cunningham sternly. "The peppercorn and horseshoe at once, if you please, or I shall have to use force. I trust you will avoid a scene before your daughter. You may lower your right hand to your pocket." The Earl did as he was bid, drew out the precious packet, and handed it to Cunningham. "Thank you, my lord," he replied. "You are wise. I promise you they shall be returned on the morning of the 29th. To what address?" "I don't believe you," retorted the peer. "But I stay at Claridge's. Now, if you've anything of a sportsman about you, you'll go on to the Queen Hotel at Harrogate and tell my chauffeur, Achille Petibon, to come with a repairer at once. We can't spend the night here. I've got a spare cover and tube in the tonneau, but I can no more fit them than fly. My finger-nails are far too brittle." "I will convey your message with the greatest pleasure, my lord," replied Cunningham. "I sincerely regret the inconvenience I have caused, though you may not think so." For a moment there was a pause, and Cunningham could have gone. Yet he hesitated. The moon shone down upon a desolate moorland glade, lighting up the green sward by the trees. The excitement of the adventure, the flush of victory, a pair of bright eyes, and the memory of some half-forgotten romance stirred his blood. "One final favour, my lord," he said. "No more, sir. By George, if I were ten years younger----" "You carry a gramophone with you." "You are remarkably well informed as to my luggage, sir. I do, but it's too bulky for you to carry away. They're cheap enough. A man of taste like yourself ought to be able to afford one of his own." "I don't want to take it away, my lord. I simply want the favour of a dance tune and a lady's hand."