Waiting for no more Jerome Caryl turned swiftly down the stairs while behind him rose a drunken shout: _And across the Straits of Dover Our gallant King came over, Came triumphantly over to his own!_ CHAPTER XXIV THE LOVE OF MARGARET CAMPBELL As Jerome Caryl reached the street, softly closing the door behind him, a woman’s voice fell on his ears out of the darkness. “Mr. Caryl! Mr. Caryl!” He looked about him and discerned a shadow among shadows, a huge coach, a few paces from the house. In the open door stood the Countess Peggy, the coach light showing her in a misty radiance. She beckoned to him and he crossed the cobbles to her side. “Mr. Caryl—I have been waiting for ye. I slipped awa’ when they grew noisy—I was wondering if they would let ye go.” She fixed her eyes on his face. “Maybe they will be pursuing ye?” “I do not think so,” Jerome Caryl answered evenly, “their wits are confused—they hardly know that I have gone.” “Ah—then—come with me—in the coach, it gangs faster—” “I think, my lady, there is no need,” he smiled in some surprise. But she laid her hand vehemently on his arm. “I want to speak to you—an’ ye will be safer in the coach—” She made a gesture toward the house. “They may follow ye—come—I will take it across the river—” There was so much anxiety, and intensity in her face and words that Jerome Caryl was impressed; he might as well cross the river in her coach as not, he quietly assented. A look of great relief came over her face; she hurried round to the box where two servants sat, calling to them some instructions in Gaelic, then returning to Caryl sprang lightly past him into the coach. He mounted after her and the horses started at a brisk pace. It was a cold, raw night, and the blinds were drawn tight over the windows; the interior of the coach was upholstered in a somber red leather and the one lamp filled it with a gloomy light. The Countess Peggy had at once drawn herself away into the corner furthest from Jerome. She was hatless and her red hair in a confusion of curls, lay spread over her black velvet coat; a gray fur mantle wrapped her about and fell in heavy folds on the floor; round her throat hung a long lace scarf reaching to her waist; her gloves and muff lay on the seat beside her. Something in the situation, the confined strange atmosphere of the coach, the swift motion and the beautiful, curious face of the woman opposite, appealed to Jerome Caryl; he was interested, affected by what he could not tell; he looked at her with no desire to speak and a heavy silence fell. Gradually the frosty mist penetrated and a hazy ring grew round the lamp; the coach swung monotonously from side to side. The Countess Peggy looked up; her green eyes were wild. “Ye are ganging to Kensington,” she said in a voice muffled but steady. He turned so that he could see her with the greater ease.