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  “I didn’t sneer!” said Juliana hastily. “I’d no notion you behaved so dreadfully badly to her. You said you forced her aboard your yacht, but I never supposed that you really frightened her enough to make her fire at you. You need not be in a rage with me for saying so, Dominic, but when I saw Mary at your house she was so placid I made sure you’d not treated her so very brutally after all. Had you?”

  “Yes,” said Vidal bluntly. He looked at Juliana. “You think it was vastly romantic for Mary to be carried off by me, don’t you? You think you would enjoy it, and you cannot conceive how she should be afraid, can you? Then think, my girl! Think a little! You are in my power at this moment, I may remind you. What if I make you feel it? What if I say to start with that you shall eat your dinner, and force it down your throat?”

  Juliana shrank back from him involuntarily. “Don’t, Vidal! Don’t come near me!” she said, frightened by the expression in his face.

  He laughed. “Not so romantic, is it, Ju? And to force you to eat your dinner would be a small thing compared with some other things I might force you to do. Sit down, I’m not going to touch you.”

  She obeyed, eyeing him nervously. “I—I wish I hadn’t come with you!” she said.

  “So did Mary, with more reason. But Mary would have died sooner than let me see that she was afraid. And Mary, my love, is not my cousin.”

  Juliana drew a long breath. “Of course, I didn’t think that you would really force me to eat,” she said. “You—you merely startled me.”

  “Well, I shall force you if you don’t take care,” said his lordship. He carved a slice of breast, and handed it to her. “Don’t be tiresome, Juliana. Eat it, and forget your sensibilities. You’ve not much time.”

  Juliana took the plate meekly. “Oh, very well,” she said. “I must say, Dominic, if you looked at Mary in that dreadful threatening way I can almost forgive her for running off with Frederick.” She stole a sidelong look at him. “You were not very kind to Mary, apparently.”

  “Kind!” ejaculated Vidal. “No, I was not—kind.”

  Juliana ate another morsel of capon. “You seem to me to have behaved as though you hated her,” she remarked.

  He said nothing. Juliana peeped at him again. “You’re very anxious to get her in your power again, Vidal. But I don’t quite know why you should be, for you meant to marry her only because you had ruined her, and so were obliged to, didn’t you?”

  She thought that he was not going to answer, but suddenly he raised his eyes from the contemplation of the dregs of his wine. “Because I am obliged to?” he said. “I mean to marry Mary Challoner because I’m devilish sure I can’t live without her.”

  Juliana clapped her hands with a crow of delight. “Oh, it is famous!” she exclaimed. “I never dreamed you had fallen in love with my staid Mary! I thought you were chasing her through France just because you so hate to be crossed! But when you flew into a rage with me for saying she was too dull to be afraid of you, of course, I guessed at once! My dearest Dominic, I was never more glad of anything in my life, and it is of all things the most romantic possible! Do, do let us overtake them at once! Only conceive of their astonishment when they see us!”

  “Mary knows I am hard on her heels,” Vidal answered, with a little laugh. “At every stage I meet with the same tale: the English lady was anxious to lose no time. She’s used to my way of travel, Juliana; she’ll whisk your Frederick to Dijon in a manner highly discomposing to his dignity.”

  “It is possible,” said Miss Marling stiffly, “that Frederick and not Mary will have the ordering of the journey.”

  Vidal chuckled. “Not if I know my Mary,” he replied.

  Twenty minutes later they took the road again. Dinner had revived Miss Marling’s spirits, and she made no demur at entering the chaise again. Knowing that she was within reach of her Frederick she could not now drive fast enough, and her only fear was that they might overshoot their mark. Somewhere on the route Frederick and Mary must have halted for the night, and Miss Marling was inclined to stop at every village they passed, in case the fugitives might be there.

  She occupied herself in planning the scene that lay before her, and had decided on the speech she would make when there was a sudden crash, and she was hurled against the side of the chaise. There was a dreadful bump, the smash of breaking glass, and Miss Marling, considerably shaken and dazed, tried to right herself only to find that the seat of the coach was now at a very odd angle, and the off-door almost where the roof should have been. She heard the trampling of the horses plunging in alarm, and the voices of the postillions. Then the off-door was wrenched open, and Vidal said sharply: “Are you hurt, Ju?”

  “No, but what has happened?—Oh, I have cut myself! Oh, this dreadful glass! It is too bad of you, Dominic! I said we were driving at a wicked pace, and now see what has happened!”

  “We’ve lost a wheel,” explained his lordship. “Reach up your hands to me, and I’ll pull you out.”

  This feat was performed in an expeditious if somewhat rough-and-ready fashion. Juliana was swung down on to the road, and left to examine her hurts while his lordship went to see that the frightened horses were unhurt. When he came back he found his cousin in a state of seething indignation. She demanded to know where they were, how he proposed to come up with the runaways, where they were to sleep, and whether anyone cared enough to bind up her bleeding hand or not.

  The Marquis performed this office for her by the light of one of the chaise lamps, and told her not to be in a taking over a mere scratch. He said that they were, providentially, only a quarter of a mile from the next village, where they could obtain a lodging for the night in one of the cottages.

  “What?” shrieked the afflicted Miss Marling. “Sleep in a horrid peasant’s cottage? I won’t! You must find another chaise at once! At once, Vidal, do you hear?”

  “I hear,” said his lordship coolly. “Now, don’t be nonsensical, Juliana. You’ll do well enough. For all I know there may be an inn you can stay at, though I won’t vouch for the sheets. There’s no hope of repairing the chaise till the morning, for Richards will have to ride to the nearest town to find a smith. I’m sending him off now, and for the present you must make the best of it. We shall catch our runaways in time, don’t doubt it.”

  Miss Marling, overcome by the ignominy of her position, sank down on the bank by the roadside and gave way to her emotions. The postillions regarded her with interested sympathy; Richards coughed in embarrassment; and my lord, raising his clenched fists to heaven, prayed to be delivered from every female but one.

  Chapter XV

  at about the same time that the Marquis of Vidal’s chaise lost a wheel, the Duchess of Avon and Lord Rupert Alastair arrived in Paris, and drove straight to the Hotel Avon.

  “What had we best do first, Rupert?” her grace asked anxiously, as the chaise drew into the courtyard.

  “Have some dinner,” replied his lordship, with a prodigious yawn. “If there’s anyone in the house, which I doubt.”

  “But why should you doubt? We know that Dominique is in Paris!”

  “Lord, Léonie, don’t be so simple! Dominic’s lax, but damme, he wouldn’t bring his mistress to your house.” Lord Rupert heaved his body out of the corner of the chaise, and looked out of the window. “Place looks as deserted as a tomb,” he remarked, opening the door.

  A solitary lackey came out of the house, attracted by the noise of the arrival, and began to say that his lordship was out of town. Then Lord Rupert sprang from the chaise, and the lackey, recognizing him, looked very much taken aback, and as though he did not know what to say.

  Lord Rupert eyed him appraisingly. “One of Lord Vidal’s servants, aren’t you?” he said. “Where’s his lordship?”

  “I couldn’t say, my lord,” answered the lackey cautiously.

  “Won’t say, more like,” said Rupert. He turned, and gave his hand to Léonie who was descending from the chaise. “There’s one of Vidal’s fel
lows here, so it looks as though the boy had been here. Odd, damned odd.”

  The Duchess shook out her crushed skirts with a purposeful air, and looked at the lackey, who was staring at her aghast. “It is you who are my son’s servant? Bon! Where is milor’?”

  “I don’t know, your grace. He’s not in town.”

  “Is there anyone in the house?” demanded the Duchess.

  “No, your grace. Only the servants, that is.”

  Léonie pounced on this. “Why is it then that the house is full of my son’s servants and yet he is not here?”

  The lackey shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “His lordship left Paris this afternoon, your grace.”

  Léonie turned to Lord Rupert, throwing out her hands. “But it is imbecile! Why should he leave Paris? I don’t believe a word of it. Where is Fletcher?”

  “Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Timms have both gone out, your grace.”

  “What, has his lordship gone off without his valet?” demanded Rupert.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I am going into the house,” announced Léonie.

  Rupert watched her go, and looked at the lackey again. “Come on, out with it, my man: Where’s his lordship?”

  “My lord, indeed I could not say. If your lordship would wait till Mr. Fletcher comes in, maybe he would know.”

  “It looks to me like a damned fishy business,” said Rupert severely, and followed Léonie into the hall.

  He found her grace trying to pump the housekeeper. When she saw him Léonie said: “Rupert, it is what I do not at all understand! She says the girl was never here. And I do not think she is lying to me, for she is my servant, and not Dominique’s.”

  Lord Rupert divested himself of his heavy Rockelaure. “Well, if Vidal’s got rid of the wench already, I’d say it’s quick work,” he remarked admiringly. “Stap me, if I know how he manages it! I always found ’em cling so there was no shaking the dear creatures off at all.”

  Léonie cast him a glance of scorn and swept upstairs. The housekeeper would have followed her, but his lordship detained her, and broached the matter nearest his heart. The housekeeper was shocked to learn that the travellers had not yet dined, and hurried away to order a meal to be prepared at once.

  When Léonie saw Rupert again dinner was on the table, and his lordship had just come in from a visit to the stables. He took his seat opposite Léonie, and said with a puzzled air: “Blister me if I can make head or tail of this coil. Vidal’s damned lackeys are as close as a lot of oysters. Y’know, Léonie, the boy’s a marvel, so he is. I never could keep a servant who didn’t blab all my affairs to the world.”

  “He is coming back,” Léonie said positively. “I have looked in his room, and all his clothes are there.”

  Lord Rupert coughed. “Anything else, my dear?” he asked, with delicacy.

  “Nothing,” said Léonie. “It is very curious, do you not think? For where can the girl be?”

  “That’s what beats me,” confessed Rupert. “Not but what I never thought to find her here. But if she’s not, why is Vidal? That’s what I don’t understand. Now, I’ve been talking to the grooms. All I can find is that Vidal left Paris by the Port Royal to-day. Naturally, I don’t like to ask ’em point-blank if he’d a wench with him, and none of ’em—”

  “Why not?” interrupted the Duchess. “Burn it, you can’t ask lackeys questions like that, Léonie!”

  “I do not see why not. I want to know, and if I do not ask who will tell me?”

  “They’ll never tell you, anyway, my dear,” his lordship informed her.

  Dinner was over when Fletcher at last put in an appearance, and Rupert and Léonie had repaired to the library. Fletcher came in, sedate as ever, and begged her grace’s pardon for having been out when she arrived. Léonie brushed that aside, and once more demanded to know her son’s whereabouts.

  “I think, your grace,” he answered guardedly, “that his lordship has gone to Dijon.”

  Lord Rupert stared at him. “What in the fiend’s name does he want in Dijon?” he asked.

  “His lordship did not tell me, my lord.” Léonie smote her hands together. “Voyons, I find it insupportable that no one can tell me anything about my son! Speak, you! Was that girl with M. le Marquis?—No, I will not be quiet, Rupert! Was she with him, Fletcher?”

  “I beg your grace’s pardon?” Mr. Fletcher was all polite bewilderment.

  “Do not beg my pardon again, or I shall become enraged!” Léonie said dangerously. “It is no use to tell me you do not know of any girl, for me I am well aware that M. le Marquis had one with him when he left England. That is not a thing extraordinary. It is true, is it not?”

  Mr. Fletcher cast an appealing glance at Lord Rupert, who said testily: “Don’t stare at me, man! We know the girl was with his lordship.”

  Mr. Fletcher bowed. “As your lordship says.”

  “Well, has she gone to Dijon?”

  “I could not say, my lord.”

  Léonie eyed him with hostility. “Did she leave this house with M. le Marquis?”

  “No, your grace. She was not with his lordship when he set forward on his journey.”

  “There you are, my dear!” said Rupert. “Vidal’s got rid of her, and we may as well go home again before Avon gets wind of the affair.”

  Léonie told Mr. Fletcher he might go, and when the door had closed behind him, she turned to Rupert with an expression of great anxiety on her face. “Rupert, it becomes more and more serious!”

  “Devil a bit!” said his lordship cheerfully. “You can’t get away from it, the girl’s not with Vidal now, so I don’t see we’ve aught to worry over!”

  “But Rupert, you do not understand at all! I have a very big fear that Dominique may have cast her off—in a rage, tu sais.”

  Lord Rupert disposed his limbs more comfortably in his chair. “I shouldn’t wonder if he had,” he agreed. “It don’t concern us, thank the Lord!”

  Léonie got up, and began to move about the room. “If he has done that it is a crime one does not forgive. I must find her.”

  Lord Rupert blinked. “If she ain’t with that precious son of yours what do you want with her now?” he inquired.

  “Do you think I will permit my son to abandon a girl in Paris?” Léonie said fiercely. “That is noble, yes! I tell you, I have been alone in a great city and there is nothing I do not know of what may happen to a girl who has no protector.”

  “But you said this wench was a—”

  “I may have said it, but that was because I was angry. I do not know what she is, and I will find her immediately. If Dominique has done her a wrong he shall marry her.”

  Lord Rupert clasped his head in his hands. “Hang me, if I know what you’re about, Léonie!” he said. “Here’s me dragged out of England to help you save the Cub from an adventuress, as I thought, and now you say the boy’s to marry her!”

  Léonie paid not the slightest heed to this. She went on pacing the room until suddenly an idea came to her, and she stopped short. “Rupert, Juliana is in Paris!”

  “What of it?” said his lordship.

  “But do you not see, that if Vidal has been staying here of course Juliana has met him?”

  “Do you think she might know why the plaguey boy has gone off to Dijon?” inquired Rupert hopefully. “That’s what bothers me. Why Dijon?”

  Léonie wrinkled her brow in a puzzled manner. “But why, Rupert, is it Dijon that bothers you? I find the whole of this affair so very strange and without reason that for Dominique to have gone to Dijon is a bagatelle.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Rupert said. “It’s such a devilish queer place to go to. Dijon! What in the fiend’s name would anybody want there? I’ll tell you what it is, Léonie, the boy’s behaving mighty oddly.” He shook his head. “The ninth earl was given to these turns, so they say. It’s a bad business.”

  Léonie stared at him. Lord Rupert tapped his forehead significantly. Léonie said i
n great indignation: “Are you telling me that my son is mad?”

  “We’ll hope he ain’t,” Rupert said pessimistically, “but you can’t deny he’s behaving in a manner no one would call sane. Dijon! Why, it’s absurd!”

  “If you were not Monseigneur’s brother, Rupert, I should have one big quarrel with you. Mad! Voyons, he is not so mad as you, for you have not any sense at all. Let us go to find Juliana.”

  They found, not Juliana, but her hostess, laboriously writing what seemed to be a very long letter. When they were ushered into her boudoir she displayed as much startled surprise as could be expected of anyone so habitually placid. She got up to embrace Léonie, almost falling upon her neck. “Mon Dieu, is it you, Léonie?” she said, with a fat gasp. Then she held out a checking hand. “Not my cousin Justin? Do not say my cousin Justin is here!” she implored.

  “Lord, you wouldn’t see me here if he was in Paris!” said Rupert reassuringly.

  “If Fanny is here, I cannot face her!” stated madame in palpitating tones. She pointed to her desk, and the scattered sheets of gilt paper. “I am writing to her now. Why have you come? I am glad, yes, but I do not know why you have come.”

  “Glad, are you? Well, it don’t sound like it,” commented his lordship. “We’ve come chasing after that plaguey nephew of mine, and a devilish silly errand it is.”

  Madame sank down on to a spindle-legged chair, and stared at him with her mouth open. “You know, then?” she faltered.

  “Yes, yes, we know everything!” Léonie said. “Now tell me where is Dominique, Elisabeth? Please tell me quickly.”

  “But I do not know!” cried madame, spreading out her two plump hands.

  “Oh, peste!” said Léonie impatiently.

  “Come now, that’s the only thing we do know,” said his lordship. “Vidal’s gone to Dijon.”

  Madame looked from him to Léonie in blank bewilderment. “To Dijon? But why? Gracious God, why to Dijon?”

  “Just what I said myself, cousin,” replied Rupert triumphantly. “I don’t say the boy hasn’t his reasons, but what the devil he can want in Dijon beats me.”