‘College-wench, sir?’ the lawyer cried scarcely controlling his indignation.  ‘She is Sir George Soane’s cousin.  I’d have you know that!’

‘And my promised wife,’ Sir George said, with grim-ness.

Dunborough cried out in his astonishment.  ‘It is a lie!’ he said.

‘As you please,’ Sir George answered.

At that, a chill such as he had never known gripped Mr. Dunborough’s heart.  He had thought himself in an unpleasant fix before; and that to escape scot free he must eat humble pie with a bad grace.  But on this a secret terror, such as sometimes takes possession of a bold man who finds himself helpless and in peril seized on him.  Given arms and the chance to use them, he would have led the forlornest of hopes, charged a battery, or fired a magazine.  But the species of danger in which he now found himself—­with a gallows and a silk rope in prospect, his fate to be determined by the very scoundrels he had hired—­shook even his obstinacy.  He looked about him; Sir George’s servant had come up and was waiting a little apart.

Mr. Dunborough found his lips dry, his throat husky.  ‘What do you want?’ he muttered, his voice changed.  ’I have told you all I know.  Likely enough they have taken her back to get themselves out of the scrape.’

‘They have not,’ said the lawyer.  ’We have come that way, and must have met them.’

‘They may be in Chippenham?’

‘They are not.  We have inquired.’

’Then they must have taken this road.  Curse you, don’t you see that I cannot get out of my saddle to look?’ he continued ferociously.

’They have gone this way.  Have you any devil’s shop—­any house of call down the road?’ Sir George asked, signing to the servant to draw nearer.

‘Not I.’

’Then we must track them.  If they dared not face Chippenham, they will not venture through Devizes.  It is possible that they are making for Bristol by cross-roads.  There is a bridge over the Avon near Laycock Abbey, somewhere on our right, and a road that way through Pewsey Forest.’

‘That will be it,’ cried Mr. Dunborough, slapping his thigh.  ’That is their game, depend upon it.’

Sir George did not answer him, but nodded to the servant.  ’Go on with the light,’ he said.  ’Try every turning for wheels, but lose no time.  This gentleman will accompany us, but I will wait on him.’

The man obeyed quickly, the lawyer going with him.  The other two brought up the rear, and in that order they started, riding in silence.  For a mile or more the servant held the road at a steady trot; then signing to those behind him to halt, he pulled up at the mouth of a by-road leading westwards from the highway.  He moved the light once or twice across the ground, and cried that the wheels had gone that way; then got briskly to his saddle and swung along the lane at a trot, the others following in single file, Sir George last.