Lazarus wheeled and faced her with a furious gesture.  “Get back to your cellar, woman,” he commanded.  “Get back under ground and stay there.  Look at what is stopping before your miserable gate.”

A carriage was stopping—­a very perfect carriage of dark brown.  The coachman and footman wore dark brown and gold liveries, and the footman had leaped down and opened the door with respectful alacrity.  “They are friends of the Master’s come to pay their respects to his son,” said Lazarus.  “Are their eyes to be offended by the sight of you?”

“Your money is safe,” said Marco.  “You had better leave us.”

Mrs. Beedle gave a sharp glance at the two gentlemen who had entered the broken gate.  They were of an order which did not belong to Philibert Place.  They looked as if the carriage and the dark brown and gold liveries were every-day affairs to them.

“At all events, they’re two grown men, and not two boys without a penny,” she said.  “If they’re your father’s friends, they’ll tell me whether my rent’s safe or not.”

The two visitors were upon the threshold.  They were both men of a certain self-contained dignity of type; and when Lazarus opened wide the door, they stepped into the shabby entrance hall as if they did not see it.  They looked past its dinginess, and past Lazarus, and The Rat, and Mrs. Beedle—­through them, as it were,—­at Marco.

He advanced towards them at once.

“You come from my father!” he said, and gave his hand first to the elder man, then to the younger.

“Yes, we come from your father.  I am Baron Rastka—­and this is the Count Vorversk,” said the elder man, bowing.

“If they’re barons and counts, and friends of your father’s, they are well-to-do enough to be responsible for you,” said Mrs. Beedle, rather fiercely, because she was somewhat over-awed and resented the fact.  “It’s a matter of next week’s rent, gentlemen.  I want to know where it’s coming from.”

The elder man looked at her with a swift cold glance.  He did not speak to her, but to Lazarus.  “What is she doing here?” he demanded.

Marco answered him.  “She is afraid we cannot pay our rent,” he said.  “It is of great importance to her that she should be sure.”

“Take her away,” said the gentleman to Lazarus.  He did not even glance at her.  He drew something from his coat-pocket and handed it to the old soldier.  “Take her away,” he repeated.  And because it seemed as if she were not any longer a person at all, Mrs. Beedle actually shuffled down the passage to the cellar-kitchen steps.  Lazarus did not leave her until he, too, had descended into the cellar kitchen, where he stood and towered above her like an infuriated giant.

“To-morrow he will be on his way to Samavia, miserable woman!” he said.  “Before he goes, it would be well for you to implore his pardon.”

But Mrs. Beedle’s point of view was not his.  She had recovered some of her breath.