The sun had passed its meridian when they went into the streets again.  Robert’s head was high as a cock’s, and Anthony leaned on his arm; performing short half-circles headlong to the front, until the mighty arm checked and uplifted him.  They were soon in the fields leading to Wrexby.  Robert saw two female figures far ahead.  A man was hastening to join them.  The women started and turned suddenly:  one threw up her hands, and darkened her face.  It was in the pathway of a broad meadow, deep with grass, wherein the red sorrel topped the yellow buttercup, like rust upon the season’s gold.  Robert hastened on.  He scarce at the moment knew the man whose shoulder he seized, but he had recognised Dahlia and Rhoda, and he found himself face to face with Sedgett.

“It’s you!”

“Perhaps you’ll keep your hands off; before you make sure, another time.”

Robert said:  “I really beg your pardon.  Step aside with me.”

“Not while I’ve a ha’p’orth o’ brains in my noddle,” replied Sedgett, drawling an imitation of his enemy’s courteous tone.  “I’ve come for my wife.  I’m just down by train, and a bit out of my way, I reckon.  I’m come, and I’m in a hurry.  She shall get home, and have on her things—­boxes packed, and we go.”

Robert waved Dahlia and Rhoda to speed homeward.  Anthony had fallen against the roots of a banking elm, and surveyed the scene with philosophic abstractedness.  Rhoda moved, taking Dahlia’s hand.

“Stop,” cried Sedgett.  “Do you people here think me a fool?  Eccles, you know me better ’n that.  That young woman’s my wife.  I’ve come for her, I tell ye.”

“You’ve no claim on her,” Rhoda burst forth weakly, and quivered, and turned her eyes supplicatingly on Robert.  Dahlia was a statue of icy fright.

“You’ve thrown her off, man, and sold what rights you had,” said Robert, spying for the point of his person where he might grasp the wretch and keep him off.

“That don’t hold in law,” Sedgett nodded.  “A man may get in a passion, when he finds he’s been cheated, mayn’t he?”

“I have your word of honour,” said Rhoda; muttering, “Oh! devil come to wrong us!”

“Then, you shouldn’t ha’ run ferreting down in my part o’ the country.  You, or Eccles—­I don’t care who ’tis—­you’ve been at my servants to get at my secrets.  Some of you have.  You’ve declared war.  You’ve been trying to undermine me.  That’s a breach, I call it.  Anyhow, I’ve come for my wife.  I’ll have her.”

“None of us, none of us; no one has been to your house,” said Rhoda, vehemently.  “You live in Hampshire, sir, I think; I don’t know any more.  I don’t know where.  I have not asked my sister.  Oh! spare us, and go.”

“No one has been down into your part of the country,” said Robert, with perfect mildness.

To which Sedgett answered bluffly, “There ye lie, Bob Eccles;” and he was immediately felled by a tremendous blow.  Robert strode over him, and taking Dahlia by the elbow, walked three paces on, as to set her in motion.  “Off!” he cried to Rhoda, whose eyelids cowered under the blaze of his face.