Of course the proposal was hailed with delight, Mayne only insisting that he should wake his wife and get her to prepare the spare bedroom. Of this, however, Beaumanoir would not hear, and he was trying to persuade his host to retire for the night when a dog barked furiously at the back of the house. "That’s old Tear’em; there’ll be someone moving," said Mayne, going out into the passage and listening intently. Beaumanoir remained in the kitchen, but for all that it was he, with his highly strung nerves, who was the first to catch the sound of a footstep without—a stealthy footstep, not approaching the cottage door boldly, but creeping close to the window. The next instant, however, before he could communicate with Mayne, another and a brisker step, without any attempt at secrecy, crunched on the pebble path, and there came a tap at the cottage door. Mayne immediately opened it. "Sorry to disturb you, but there has been a railway accident," a man said in tones that struck Beaumanoir as vaguely familiar. "I’m tired of waiting about at the side of the line. Can you give me shelter for the night?" "If you’ll please to walk in, sir, I’ll see what can be done," came the reply of the hospitable keeper. "I’ve got one of the passengers in here already." The next moment there appeared in the doorway of the kitchen the tall man who had hectored the guard at Elstree station and who had afterwards been joined by the spy, Marker, at Radlett. Whatever his purpose, he was plainly not disposed to lay aside his air of self-importance as yet. He glanced superciliously at Beaumanoir, and promptly appropriated the chair which the latter had risen from at the first alarm. Loyal to his own county, this was more than Mayne could stand; he hastened to effect a one-sided introduction. "Beg pardon, sir, but you’ve taken the Duke’s chair," he said. "This gentleman is his Grace the Duke of Beaumanoir." The newcomer rose with alacrity. "Sorry, I’m sure," he said, taking another seat. "We are companions in misfortune, Duke, if, as I understand, you were traveling in that wretched 8.45 from St. Pancras." Beaumanoir’s sense of humor, ever present, but of late repressed by stress of circumstances, broke out at the efforts of this man, who spoke with a pronounced American accent, and who, he was persuaded, was there with murderous intent, to sustain the _rôle_ of an English gentleman. He had not forgotten that other and more furtive footstep under the window, but he could not resist the sport of leading this rascal on. The mood had seized him to avoid being killed if he could; but, if that were not possible, to extract all available fun out of the process. And it might serve either of these contingencies to lead his adversary into the belief that he was not being imposed on by all this specious posing.