Lord Belpber was thoroughly upset.  It was impossible to prove it or to do anything about it now, but he was convinced that the fellow had wormed his way into the castle in the guise of a waiter.  He had probably met Maud and plotted further meetings with her.  This thing was becoming unendurable.

One thing was certain.  The family honour was in his hands.  Anything that was to be done to keep Maud away from the intruder must be done by himself.  Reggie was hopeless:  he was capable, as far as Percy could see, of escorting Maud to the fellow’s door in his own car and leaving her on the threshold with his blessing.  As for Lord Marshmoreton, roses and the family history took up so much of his time that he could not be counted on for anything but moral support.  He, Percy, must do the active work.

He had just come to this decision, when, approaching the window and gazing down into the grounds, he perceived his sister Maud walking rapidly—­and, so it seemed to him, with a furtive air—­down the east drive.  And it was to the east that Platt’s farm and the cottage next door to it lay.

At the moment of this discovery, Percy was in a costume ill adapted for the taking of country walks.  Reggie’s remarks about his liver had struck home, and it had been his intention, by way of a corrective to his headache and a general feeling of swollen ill-health, to do a little work before his bath with a pair of Indian clubs.  He had arrayed himself for this purpose in an old sweater, a pair of grey flannel trousers, and patent leather evening shoes.  It was not the garb he would have chosen himself for a ramble, but time was flying:  even to put on a pair of boots is a matter of minutes:  and in another moment or two Maud would be out of sight.  Percy ran downstairs, snatched up a soft shooting-hat, which proved, too late, to belong to a person with a head two sizes smaller than his own; and raced out into the grounds.  He was just in time to see Maud disappearing round the corner of the drive.

Lord Belpher had never belonged to that virile class of the community which considers running a pleasure and a pastime.  At Oxford, on those occasions when the members of his college had turned out on raw afternoons to trot along the river-bank encouraging the college eight with yelling and the swinging of police-rattles, Percy had always stayed prudently in his rooms with tea and buttered toast, thereby avoiding who knows what colds and coughs.  When he ran, he ran reluctantly and with a definite object in view, such as the catching of a train.  He was consequently not in the best of condition, and the sharp sprint which was imperative at this juncture if he was to keep his sister in view left him spent and panting.  But he had the reward of reaching the gates of the drive not many seconds after Maud, and of seeing her walking—­more slowly now—­down the road that led to Platt’s.  This confirmation of his suspicions enabled him momentarily to forget the blister which was forming on the heel of his left foot.  He set out after her at a good pace.