‘The people at the inn, then.’

’Well, and what is their right?  But—­I see your point, parson!  Damme, you are a cunning one.  I had not thought of that.  She’ll appeal to them, will she?  Then she shall be my sister, run off from her home!  Ha!  Ha!  Or no, my lad,’ he continued, chuckling savagely, and slapping the tutor on the back; ’they know me here, and that I have no sister.  She shall be your daughter!’ And while Mr. Thomasson stared aghast, Pomeroy laughed recklessly.  ’She shall be your daughter, man!  My guest, and run off with an Irish ensign!  Oh, by Gad, we’ll nick her!  Come on!’

Mr. Thomasson shuddered.  It seemed to him the wildest scheme—­a folly beyond speech.  Resisting the hand with which Pomeroy would have impelled him towards the lighted doorway, ‘I will have nothing to do with it!’ he cried, with all the firmness he could muster.  ‘Nothing!  Nothing!’

‘A minute ago you might have gone to the devil!’ Mr. Pomeroy answered grimly, ’and welcome!  Now, I want you.  And, by heaven, if you don’t stand by me I’ll break your back!  Who is there here who is likely to know you?  Or what have you to fear?’

‘She’ll expose us!’ Mr. Thomasson whimpered.  ‘She’ll tell them!’

‘Who’ll believe her?’ the other answered with supreme contempt.  ’Which is the more credible story—­hers about a lost heir, or ours?  Come on, I say!’

Mr. Thomasson had been far from anticipating a risk of this kind when he entered on his career of scheming.  But he stood in mortal terror of his companion, whose reckless passions were fully aroused; and after a brief resistance he succumbed.  Still protesting, he allowed himself to be urged past the open doors of the inn-yard—­in the black depths of which the gleam of a lanthorn, and the form of a man moving to and fro, indicated that the strangers’ horses were not yet bedded—­and up the hospitable steps of the Angel Inn.

A solitary candle burning in a room on the right of the hall, guided their feet that way.  Its light disclosed a red-curtained snuggery, well furnished with kegs and jolly-bodied jars, and rows of bottles; and in the middle of this cheerful profusion the landlord himself, stooping over a bottle of port, which he was lovingly decanting.  His array, a horseman’s coat worn over night-gear, with bare feet thrust into slippers, proved him newly risen from bed; but the hum of voices and clatter of plates which came from the neighbouring kitchen were signs that, late as it was, the good inn was not caught napping.

The host heard their steps behind him, but crying ’Coming, gentlemen, coming!’ finished his task before he turned.  Then ‘Lord save us!’ he ejaculated, staring at them—­the empty bottle in one hand, the decanter in the other.  ’Why, the road’s alive to-night!  I beg your honour’s pardon, I am sure, and yours, sir!  I thought ’twas one of the gentlemen that arrived, awhile ago—­come down to see why supper lagged.  Squire Pomeroy, to be sure!  What can I do for you, gentlemen?  The fire is scarce out in the Hertford, and shall be rekindled at once?’