George and I were helpless against Betty’s will, so we said nothing more, and she climbed into the coach, taking her former place at the left end of the back seat.  George followed, taking the middle place next to her, and after giving the word to start, I followed George, taking the right hand corner, thus leaving him between Betty and me, an arrangement that did not at all please me.  But my disappointment was short lived, for hardly was I seated till Betty spoke in tones plainly showing that she was pouting:—­

“I want Baron Ned to sit by me.”

George laughed, he and I changed places, and when I was settled beside Betty, she caught my hand, giving it a saucy little squeeze, and fell back in her corner with a sigh and a low gurgling laugh.

When we had climbed Gracious Street hill, we turned into Candlestick Street and drove along at a brisk pace, George and I watching the houses to note our progress.

After passing Temple Bar, the street being broader and the night very dark, we could not distinguish the houses save when a light gleamed over a front door now and then, and were not sure where we were until we saw the flambeaux over Whitehall Gate scintillating through the falling snow.

Before reaching Charing Cross, one of the drivers lifted the rug which hung across the front of the coach between us and the box and asked:—­

“Did you say, sir, to take the road across the Common from Saint-Martin’s-in-the-Fields?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Then, sir, have your pistols ready, for it is the worst bloody stretch of road about London for highwaymen, though I doubt if they be out on a night like this.”

“You’re not afraid?” I asked.

“Devil a bit, sir!  I’d rather fight than eat, but I thought maybe your honors would rather eat.”

He cracked his whip, and soon we were over the dangerous ground, travelling along on the Oxford Road at a fine gallop.  On reaching the open country the wind gave us its full force, there being no doors to our coach, and soon our rugs were covered with snow.  But George and I were wrapped to our chins, and Bettina nestled cozily down in her corner untouched by the storm.

After leaving Westminster, we had no means of knowing our rate of progress, for there were no houses near the road, and, if there had been, we should not have known them.  The drivers kept the horses in a strong trot, at times a vigorous gallop, and I judged that we were making nearly three leagues an hour.  At that rate it would require perhaps two hours to reach the shrine mentioned by Lilly.

We had instructed the men on the box to watch for a sharp bend in the road just before crossing a bourne, and we, too, began to watch soon after leaving Westminster.  After what seemed to be a long time, George asked me to make a flare in my tinder box, while he caught a glimpse of the face of his watch.  This I did under the rug, and, much to our disgust, we found that we had been less than twenty minutes on the road, so provokingly had time lagged.