But yet sleep was long in coming to her.  Once when it seemed near, the hooting of an owl near the open window drove it away; and once in the vague twilight before the dawn she started awake to hear the sharp thudding of a horse’s hoofs galloping upon the turf not very far away.  That last set her heart a-beating, she could not have said wherefore, save that it reminded her vaguely of a day in the hunting-field that had ended for her in disaster.

She slept at last and dreamed—­a wild and fearful dream.  She dreamed that she was on horseback, galloping, galloping, galloping, in headlong flight from someone, she knew not whom, but it was someone of whom she was unspeakably afraid.  And ever behind her at break-neck speed, gaining upon her, merciless as fate, galloped her pursuer.  It was terrible, it was agonising, yet, though in her heart she knew it to be a dream, she could not wake.  And then, all suddenly, the race was over.  Someone drew abreast of her.  A sinewy hand gripped her bridle-rein.  With a gasping cry she turned to face her captor, and saw—­a Red Indian!  His tigerish eyes gazed into hers.  He was laughing with a fiendish exultation.  The eagle feathers tossed above his swarthy face.  It came nearer to her; it glared into her own.  And suddenly recognition stabbed her like a sword.  It was the face of Nap Errol....

He was on the stairs talking to Hudson, the valet, when she descended to breakfast, but he turned at once to greet her.

“I am sorry to say Lucas has had a bad night.  He will keep his room to-day.  How have you slept, Lady Carfax?”

She answered him conventionally.  They went downstairs together.

Bertie was in the hall studying a newspaper.  He came forward, scowling heavily, shook hands with Anne, and immediately addressed his brother.

“I’ve just come in from the stable.  Have you been out all night?  You’ve nearly ridden the mare to death.”

Anne glanced at Nap instinctively.  He was smiling.  “Don’t vex yourself, my good Bertie,” he said.  “The mare will be all right after a feed.”

“Will she?” growled Bertie.  “She is half dead from exhaustion anyway.”

“Oh, skittles!” said Nap, turning to go.

The boy’s indignation leaped to a blaze.  “Skittles to you!  I know what I’m saying.  And if you’re not ashamed of yourself, you damned well ought to be!”

Nap stopped.  “What?” he drawled.

Bertie glared at him and subsided.  The explosion had been somewhat more violent than he had intended.

Very quietly Nap stepped up to him.  “Will you repeat that last remark of yours?”

Bertie was silent.

“Or do you prefer to withdraw it?”

Bertie maintained a dogged silence.  He was fidgeting with the paper in a fashion that seemed to indicate embarrassment.

“Do you withdraw it?” Nap repeated, still quiet, still slightly drawling.

Bertie hunched his shoulders like a schoolboy.  “Oh, get away, Nap!” he growled.  “Yes—­sorry I spoke.  Now clear out and leave me alone!”