“He has not come, either.”  So for that day recognition was escaped.

It was not to be so on the next.  The rain, as I have said, came down, putting off the boat-race, and keeping Hartledon’s guests indoors all the morning; but late in the afternoon some unlucky star put it into Lord Hartledon’s head to go down to the Rectory.  His throat was better—­almost well again; and he was not a man to coddle himself unnecessarily.

He paid his visit, stayed talking a considerable time with Mrs. Ashton, whose company he liked, and took his departure about six o’clock.  “You and Anne might almost walk up with me,” he remarked to the doctor as he shook hands; for the Rector and Miss Ashton were to dine at Hartledon that day.  It was to have been the crowning festival to the boat-race—­the race which now had not taken place.

Lord Hartledon looked up at the skies, and found he had no occasion to open his umbrella, for the rain had ceased.  Sundry bright rays in the west seemed to give hope that the morrow would be fair; and, rejoicing in this cheering prospect, he crossed the broad Rectory lawn.  As he went through the gate some one laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“The Honourable Percival Elster, I believe?”

Lord Hartledon looked at the intruder.  A seedy man, with a long coat and red whiskers, who held out something to him.

“Who are you?” he asked, releasing his shoulder by a sharp movement.

“I’m sorry to do it, sir; but you know we are only the agent of others in these affairs.  You are my prisoner, sir.”

“Indeed!” said Lord Hartledon, taking the matter coolly.  “You have got hold of the wrong man for once.  I am not Mr. Percival Elster.”

The capturer laughed:  a very civil laugh.  “It won’t do, sir; we often have that trick tried on us.”

“But I tell you I am not Mr. Elster,” he reiterated, speaking this time with some anger.  “I am Lord Hartledon.”

He of the loose coat shook his head.  He had his hand again on the supposed Mr. Elster’s arm, and told him he must go with him.

“You cannot take me; you cannot arrest a peer.  This is simply ridiculous,” continued Lord Hartledon, almost laughing at the real absurdity of the thing.  “Any child in Calne could tell you who I am.”

“As well make no words over it, sir.  It’s only waste of time.”

“You have a warrant—­as I understand—­to arrest Mr. Percival Elster?”

“Yes, sir, I have.  The man that was looking for you in London got taken ill, and couldn’t come down, so our folks sent me.  ’You’ll know him by his good looks,’ said they; ‘an aristocrat every inch of him.’  Don’t give me trouble, sir.”

“Well now—­I am not Percival Elster:  I am his brother, Lord Hartledon.  You cannot take one brother for another; and, what’s more, you had better not try to do it.  Stay!  Look here.”

He pulled out his card-case, and showed his cards—­“Earl of Hartledon.”  He exhibited a couple of letters that happened to be about him—­“The Right Honble. the Earl of Hartledon.”  It was of no use.