‘You don’t know him,’ my lady answered, ’if you say that.  But it is not that I mean.  He’ll do some wild thing about carrying her off.  From a boy he would have his toy.  I’ve whipped him till the blood ran, and he’s gone to it.’

‘But without her consent,’ said Mr. Thomasson, ’it would not be possible.’

‘I mistrust him,’ the viscountess answered.  ’So do you go and find this baggage, and drop a word to her—­to go in company you understand.  Lord! he might marry her that way yet.  For once away she would have to marry him—­ay, and he to marry her to save his neck.  And fine fools we should look.’

‘It’s—­it’s a most surprising, wonderful thing she did not take him,’ said the tutor thoughtfully.

‘It’s God’s mercy and her madness,’ quoth the viscountess piously.  ’She may yet.  And I would rather give you a bit of a living to marry her—­ay, I would, Thomasson—­than be saddled with such a besom!’

Mr. Thomasson cast a sickly glance at her ladyship.  The evening before, when the danger seemed imminent, she had named two thousand pounds and a living.  Tonight, the living.  To-morrow—­what?  For the living had been promised all along and in any case.  Whereas now, a remote and impossible contingency was attached to it.  Alas! the tutor saw very clearly that my lady’s promises were pie-crust, made to be broken.

She caught the look, but attributed it to another cause.  ’What do you fear, man?’ she said.  ‘Sho! he is out of the house by this time.’

Mr. Thomasson would not have ventured far on that assurance, but he had himself seen Mr. Dunborough leave the house and pass to the stables; and anxious to escape for a time from his terrible patroness, he professed himself ready.  Knowing where the rooms, which the girl’s party occupied, lay, in the west wing, he did not call a servant, but went through the house to them and knocked at the door.

He got no answer, so gently opened the door and peeped in.  He discovered a pleasant airy apartment, looking by two windows over a little grass plot that flanked the house on that side, and lay under the shadow of the great Druid mound.  The room showed signs of occupancy—­a lady’s cloak cast over a chair, a great litter of papers on the table.  But for the moment it was empty.

He was drawing back, satisfied with his survey, when he caught the sound of a heavy tread in the corridor behind him.  He turned; to his horror he discerned Mr. Dunborough striding towards him, a whip in one hand, and in the other a note; probably the note was for this very room.  At the same moment Mr. Dunborough caught sight of the tutor, and bore down on him with a view halloa.  Mr. Thomasson’s hair rose, his knees shook under him, he all but sank down where he was.  Fortunately at the last moment his better angel came to his assistance.  His hand was still on the latch of the door; to open it, to dart inside, and to shoot the bolt were the work of a second.  Trembling he heard Mr. Dunborough come up and slash the door with his whip, and then, contented with this demonstration, pass on, after shouting through the panels that the tutor need not flatter himself—­he would catch him by-and-by.