“Would you accept——?” she began, timidly. “What day?” he interrupted, hurriedly. “Tuesday,” she hesitated. “Four o’clock, again. Same place as before. When I whistle throw it over at once.” Before they had time to say more, Moggridge, blood- and gravel-stained, came up. “It’s all right, miss,” he said, coming between them; “I’ll see that he plays no more of ’is tricks. There’s nothin’ to be afrightened of.” “Stand back!” she cried; “don’t come near me!” Moggridge was too staggered at this outburst to say a word. “Stand away!” she said, and the bewildered attendant stood away. She turned to Mr Beveridge. “Now, will you help me up?” She mounted lightly, said a brief farewell, and, forgetting all about the call at Clankwood she had ostensibly come to pay, turned her horse’s head towards the lodge. “Well, I’m blowed!” said Moggridge. “They do blow one,” his patient assented. Naturally enough the story of this equestrian adventure soon ran through Clankwood. The exact particulars, however, were a little hard to collect, for while Moggridge supplied many minute and picturesque details, illustrating his own activity and presence of mind and the imminent peril of the Lady Alicia, Mr Beveridge recounted an equally vivid story of a runaway horse recovered by himself to its fair owner’s unbounded gratitude. Official opinion naturally accepted the official account, and for the next few days Mr Beveridge became an object of considerable anxiety and mistrust. “I can’t make the man out,” said Sherlaw to Escott. “I had begun to think there was nothing much the matter with him.” “No more there is,” replied Escott. “His memory seems to me to have suffered from something, and he simply supplies its place in conversation from his imagination, and in action from the inspiration of the moment. The methods of society are too orthodox for such an aberration, and as his friends doubtless pay a handsome fee to keep him here, old Congers labels him mad and locks the door on him.” A day or two afterwards official opinion was a little disturbed. Lady Alicia, in reply to anxious inquiries, gave a third version of the adventure, from which nothing in particular could be gathered except that nothing in particular had happened. “What do you make of this, Escott?” asked Dr Congleton, laying her note before his assistant. “Merely that a woman wrote it.” “Hum! I suppose that _is_ the explanation.” Upon which the doctor looked profound and went to lunch. CHAPTER VI. “Two five-pound notes, half-a-sovereign, and seven and sixpence in silver,” said Mr Beveridge to himself. “Ah, and a card.” On the card was written, “From a friend, if you will accept it. A.” He was standing under the wall, in the secluded walk, holding a little lady’s purse in his hand, and listening to two different footsteps. One little pair of feet were hurrying away on the farther side of the high wall, another and larger were approaching him at a run.