Madam Field was worried, for it was after six in the evening and neither Léonie nor Rupert had returned. Considerably flustered at length, Madam sent a messenger to Merivale to inquire whether the truants were there. Half an hour later the lackey returned, with Merivale riding beside him. Merivale went swiftly to the withdrawing-room, and as soon as he entered Madam Field sprang up.

“Oh, Lord Merivale! Oh, and have you brought the child home? I have been in such a taking, for I never saw her after eleven in the morning, or maybe ’twas later, or perhaps a little earlier⁠—I cannot say for sure. And never a sign of Rupert, so I thought mayhap they were with you⁠—”

Merivale broke into the flood of words.

“I’ve not seen either of them since this morning when Rupert set out to come here,” he said.

Madam’s jaw dropped. She let fall her fan, and began to cry.

“Oh dear, oh dear, and Justin telling me to have a care to her! But how could I tell, for sure ’twas his own brother! Oh, my lord, can they⁠—can they have eloped?”

Merivale laid his hat and whip on the table.

“Eloped? Nonsense, madam! Impossible!”

“She was ever a wild piece,” wept Madam. “And Rupert so scatterbrained! Oh, what shall I do, my lord? What shall I do?”

“Pray, madam, dry your tears!” begged Merivale. “I am convinced there’s naught so serious in this as an elopement. For God’s sake, madam, calm yourself.”

But Madam, to his dismay, went into a fit of the vapours. My lord turned to the servant.

“Ride back to Merivale, my man, and request my lady to join me here,” he ordered, with an uneasy eye on the prostrate lady. “And⁠—and send madam’s abigail here! Mayhap the children are playing some trick on us,” he muttered to himself. “Madam, I beg you will not alarm yourself unduly!”

Madam Field’s maid came running with salts and presently the lady recovered somewhat, and lay upon the couch calling on heaven to witness that she had done her best. To all Merivale’s questions she could only reply that she had had no notion of such wickedness, and what Justin would say she dared not think. Came my Lady Merivale, in her chaise, and was ushered into the withdrawing-room.

“Madam! Why, madam, what is this? Anthony, have they not returned? Fie, they are trying to frighten us! Depend upon it, that is it! Never fret, madam, they’ll return soon.” She went to the agitated chaperon, and began to chafe her hands. “Pray, madam, hush. It’s no such great matter, I am sure. Mayhap they have lost their way somewhere, for they are out riding, you may be sure.”

“My dear, Rupert knows every inch of the country,” Merivale said quietly. He turned again to the lackey. “Be good enough to send to the stables and see whether my lord and Mistress Léonie have taken the horses.”

Ten minutes later the man returned with the news that Lord Rupert’s horse was in a loose box, and had been there all day. Whereupon Madam had a fresh attack of the vapours, and Merivale frowned.

“I don’t understand this,” he said. “If they had eloped⁠—”

“Oh, Anthony, can they have done that?” Jennifer cried aghast. “Oh no, surely! Why, the child can think of no one but the Duke, and as for Rupert⁠—”

“Listen!” said my lord sharply, and raised his hand.

Outside they heard horses, and the scrunch of wheels on the gravel. Madam started up.

“Heaven be praised, they have come back!”

With one accord Anthony and Jennifer deserted the ailing lady, and hurried into the hall. The great front-door stood open, and into the house stepped his Grace of Avon, elegant in a coat of fine purple velvet, laced with gold, a many-caped greatcoat, over all, worn carelessly open, and polished top-boots on his feet. He paused on the threshold and raised his eyeglass to survey the Merivales.

“Dear me!” he said languidly. “An unexpected honour. Your ladyship’s devoted servant.”

“Oh lord!” said Merivale, for all the world like a rueful boy.

His Grace’s lips quivered, but Jennifer blushed fiery red. Merivale went forward.

“You must deem this an unwarranted intrusion, Duke,” he began stiffly.

“Not at all,” bowed his Grace. “I am charmed.”

Merivale returned the bow.

“I was summoned to Madam Field’s assistance,” he said. “Otherwise I should not be here, believe me.”

Leisurely the Duke divested himself of his greatcoat, and shook out his ruffles.

“But shall we not repair to the withdrawing-room?” he suggested. “You are saying, I think, that you came to my cousin’s assistance?” He led the way to the withdrawing-room, and bowed them in. Madam Field, seeing him, gave a shriek, and fell back upon her cushions.

“Oh, mercy, ’tis Justin!” she cried.

Jennifer went to her.

“Hush, madam! Calm yourself!”

“You appear to be strangely afflicted, cousin,” remarked his Grace.

“Oh Justin⁠—oh cousin! I have no notion! So innocent they seemed! I can scarce believe⁠—”

“Innocent! Of course they were!” snorted Merivale. “Have done with this elopement foolery! It’s mere child’s talk!”

“Oh Anthony, do you think so indeed?” said Jennifer thankfully.

“I do not wish to seem importunate,” said the Duke, “but I should like an explanation. Where, may I ask, is my ward?”

“That,” said Merivale, “is the very root of the matter.”

The Duke stood very still.

“Indeed!” he said softly. “Pray continue. Cousin, I must request you to cease your lamentations.”

Madam’s noisy sobs abated. She clutched Jennifer’s hand and sniffed dolefully.

“I know nothing more than this,” said Merivale. “She and Rupert have been absent since eleven of the clock this morning.”

“Rupert?” said his Grace.

“I should have told you that Rupert has been staying with us these past three weeks.”

“You amaze me,” said Avon. His eyes were as hard as agates. He turned, and put his snuffbox down on the table. “The mystery would seem to be solved,” he said evenly.

“Sir!” It was Jennifer who spoke. His Grace looked at her indifferently. “If you are thinking that⁠—that they have eloped, I am sure⁠—oh, I am sure that ’tis not so! Such a notion was never in either of their heads!”

“So?” Avon looked from one to the other. “Pray enlighten me!”

Merivale shook his head.

“Faith, I cannot. But I would stake mine honour that there’s been no thought of love between them. They are the veriest children and even now I suspect they may be playing a trick on us. More than that⁠—” He paused.

“Yes?” said Avon.

Jennifer broke in.

“Sir, the child can talk of no one but yourself!” she said impetuously. “You have all her⁠—her adoration!”

“So I thought,” answered Avon. “But one may be mistaken. I believe there is a saying that youth will to youth.”

“It’s no such thing,” Merivale averred. “Why, they are forever quarrelling! Moreover they have taken no horses. Mayhap they are hiding somewhere to frighten us.”

A footman came to them.

“Well?” Avon spoke without turning his head.

“Mr. Manvers, your Grace, who desires speech with my Lord Rupert.”

“I have not the pleasure of Mr. Manvers’ acquaintance,” said the Duke, “but you may admit him.”

Entered a little wiry gentleman with red cheeks and bright, angry eyes. He glared at the assembled company, and, singling out the Duke, rapped forth a question.

“Are you Lord Rupert Alastair, sir?”

“I am not,” said his Grace.

The irate little man rounded on Merivale.

“You, sir?”

“My name is Merivale,” Anthony replied.

“Then where is Lord Rupert Alastair?” demanded Mr. Manvers, in a voice of baffled rage.

His Grace took snuff.

“That is what we should all like to know,” he said.

“Damme, sir, do you think to play with me?” fumed Mr. Manvers.

“I have never played with anyone,” said the Duke.

“I am come here to find Lord Rupert Alastair! I demand speech with him! I want an explanation of him!”

“My dear sir,” said Avon. “Pray join our ranks! We all want that.”

“Who the devil are you?” cried the exasperated little man.

“Sir,” bowed his Grace. “I believe I am the devil. So they say.”

Merivale was shaken with silent laughter. Mr. Manvers turned to him.

“Is this a madhouse?” he asked. “Who is he?”

“He is the Duke of Avon,” said Merivale unsteadily.

Mr. Manvers pounced on Avon again.

“Ah! Then you are Lord Rupert’s brother!” he said vindictively.

“My misfortune, sir, believe me.”

“What I demand to know is this!” said Mr. Manvers. “Where is my roan?”

“I haven’t the least idea,” said his Grace placidly. “I am not even sure that I know what you are talking about.”

“Faith, I am sure I don’t!” chuckled Merivale.

“My roan horse, sir! Where is it? Answer me that!”

“I fear you will have to hold me excused,” said the Duke. “I know nothing about your horse. In fact, I am not, at the moment, interested in your horse⁠—roan or otherwise.”

Mr. Manvers raised his fists heavenwards.

“Interested in it!” he spluttered. “My horse has been stolen!”

“You have all my sympathy,” yawned his Grace. “But I fail to see what concern it is of mine.”

Mr. Manvers thumped the table.

“Stolen, sir, by your brother, Lord Rupert Alastair, this very day!”

His words brought about a sudden silence.

“Continue!” requested his Grace. “You interest us now exceedingly. Where, when, how, and why did Lord Rupert steal your horse?”

“He stole it in the village, sir, this morning! And I may say, sir, that I consider it a gross impertinence! A piece of insolence that infuriates me! I am a calm man, sir, but when I receive such a message from a man of birth, of title⁠—”

“Oh, he left a message, did he?” interposed Merivale.

“With the blacksmith, sir! My groom rode over on the roan to the village, and the horse casting a shoe, he took him to the smith, very properly! While Coggin was shoeing the animal my fellow walked on to Fawley to execute my commands.” He breathed heavily. “When he returned, the horse was gone! The smith⁠—damn him for a fool!⁠—tells me that Lord Rupert insisted on taking the horse⁠—my horse, sir!⁠—and left his compliments for me, and his⁠—his thanks for the loan of my horse!”

“Very proper,” said his Grace.

“Damme, sir, it’s monstrous!”

A gurgling laugh came from Jennifer.

“Oh, was there ever such a boy?” she cried. “What in the world should he want with your horse, sir?”

Mr. Manvers scowled at her.

“Exactly, madam! Exactly! What did he want with my horse? The man’s mad, and should be clapped up! Coggin tells me he came running into the village like one demented, with no hat on his head! And not one of those gaping fools had the sense to stop him from seizing my horse! A set of idiots, sir!”

“I can well believe it,” said Avon. “But I do not yet see how your information can help us.”

Mr. Manvers fought with himself.

“Sir, I am not come here to help you!” he raged. “I have come to demand my horse!”

“I would give it you had I it in my possession,” said his Grace kindly. “Unfortunately Lord Rupert has your horse.”

“Then I want its recovery!”

“Do not distress yourself!” Avon advised him. “No doubt he will return it. What I wish to know is, why did Lord Rupert want your horse, and where did he go?”

“If that dolt of a landlord is to be believed,” said Mr. Manvers, “he has gone to Portsmouth.”

“Fleeing the country, evidently,” murmured his Grace. “Was there a lady with Lord Rupert?”

“No, there was not! Lord Rupert went off at a disgraceful pace in pursuit of a coach, or some such nonsense.”

The Duke’s eyes widened.

“Almost I begin to see daylight,” he said. “Proceed.”

Merivale shook his head.

“I’m all at sea,” he confessed. “The mystery grows.”

“On the contrary,” his Grace replied gently. “The mystery is very nearly solved.”

“I don’t understand you⁠—any of you!” exploded Mr. Manvers.

“That was not to be expected,” said Avon. “Lord Rupert, you say, went to Portsmouth in pursuit of a coach. Who was in that coach?”

“Some damned Frenchman, Fletcher said.”

Merivale started; so also did Jennifer.

“Frenchman?” Merivale echoed. “But what did Rupert⁠—”

His Grace was smiling grimly.

“The mystery,” he said, “is solved. Lord Rupert, Mr. Manvers, borrowed your horse to go in pursuit of M. le Comte de Saint-Vire.”

Merivale gasped.

“You knew he was here, then?”

“I did not.”

“Then how a’ God’s name⁠—?”

Again the Duke took snuff.

“Shall we say⁠—intuition, my dear Anthony?”

“But⁠—but why did Rupert pursue Saint-Vire? And⁠—and what was Saint-Vire doing on the road to Portsmouth? He told me he was journeying north to visit a friend! This goes beyond me!”

“What I want to know,” Jennifer said, “is, where is Léonie?”

“Ay, that’s the question,” nodded Merivale.

“Your pardon, sir,” interjected Mr. Manvers, “but the question is, where is my horse?”

They turned to the Duke for enlightenment.

“Léonie,” said the Duke, “is by now on the way to France, in company with the Comte de Saint-Vire. Rupert, I imagine, is also on his way to France, for I do not suppose he was in time to intercept them. Mr. Manvers’ horse is in all probability at Portsmouth. Unless, of course, Rupert has taken it to France with him.”

Mr. Manvers collapsed into the nearest chair.

“Taken⁠—taken my horse to France, sir? Oh, it’s monstrous! It’s monstrous!”

“For God’s sake, Avon, be more explicit!” begged Merivale. “Why has Saint-Vire run off with Léonie? He had not even seen her!”

“On the contrary,” said Avon, “he has seen her many times.”

Jennifer rose to her feet.

“Oh sir, he will not harm her?”

“No, he will not harm her, my lady,” Avon replied, and there was a glint in his eyes. “You see, there will be no time for that. He has Rupert hard on his heels⁠—and me.”

“You’ll go?”

“Of course I shall go. Follow my example, and place your trust in Rupert. It seems I shall live to be grateful to him yet.”

“Alastair, what in God’s name does all this mean?” demanded Merivale. “Rupert himself swore there was a mystery as soon as he saw Léonie’s likeness to Saint-Vire.”

“So Rupert saw that? I appear to have underrated Rupert’s intelligence. I believe I can satisfy your curiosity. Come with me into the library, my dear Merivale.”

Past enmity was forgotten. Anthony went to the door. Mr. Manvers sprang up.

“But all this doesn’t help me to my horse!” he said bitterly.

With his hand on the door Avon paused, and looked back.

“My good sir,” he said haughtily, “I am weary of your horse. It has served its turn, and shall be restored to you.” He went out with Merivale, and shut the door behind him. “So. One moment, Anthony. Johnson!”

The butler came forward.

“Your Grace?”

“Bid them harness Thunderbolt and Blue Peter to the curricle at once, place my large valise in it, and tell one of the women to pack some clothes for Mistress Léonie. Within half an hour, Johnson.”

“Very good, your Grace,” bowed the old man.

“And now, Merivale, this way.”

“By Gad, you’re a cool devil!” exclaimed Merivale, and followed him to the library.

His Grace went to his desk and extracted from it a brace of gold-mounted pistols.

“Briefly, Anthony, the matter is this: Léonie is Saint-Vire’s daughter.”

“I never knew he had a daughter!”

“No one knew. You thought he had a son, perhaps?”

“Yes. Well, naturally! I’ve seen the boy many times.”

“He is no more Saint-Vire’s son than you are,” said his Grace, snapping the breech of one of his pistols. “His name is Bonnard.”

“Good God, Alastair, do you mean to tell me that Saint-Vire had the audacity to exchange the children? Because of Armand?”

“I am delighted to find that you understand the situation so well,” said the Duke. “I beg you will let it go no further, for the time is not yet.”

“Very well, but what a piece of villainy! Does he know that you know?”

“I had best tell you the whole story,” sighed Avon.

When they at length emerged from the library Merivale’s face was a study of mingled emotions, and he appeared to be speechless. Jennifer met them in the hall.

“You are going, sir? You⁠—you will bring her back?”

“That I cannot say,” Avon replied. “She will be safe with me, my lady.”

Her eyes fell.

“Yes, sir, I feel that that is so.”

His Grace looked at her.

“You surprise me,” he said.

She put her hand out, hesitating.

“She has told me so much. I cannot but be sure of your⁠—kindness.” She paused. “Sir, what⁠—what lies between you and me is past, and should be forgotten.”

His Grace bowed over her hand; his lips were smiling.

“Jenny, if I said that I had forgotten you would be offended.”

“No,” she answered, and a laugh trembled in her voice. “I should be glad.”

“My dear, I desire nothing better than to please you.”

“I think,” she said, “that there is one now who holds a greater place in your heart than ever I held.”

“You err, Jenny. I have no heart,” he replied.

A silence fell. It was broken by a lackey.

“Your Grace, the curricle waits.”

“How will you cross?” Merivale asked.

“In the Silver Queen. She lies in Southampton Water. Unless Rupert has already commandeered her. If that should chance to be so, I suppose I must hire a vessel.”

Mr. Manvers came up.

“Sir, I will not stay with that woman who has the vapours,” he said. “It is very well for you to say you are weary of my horse, but I want its instant recovery!”

The Duke had donned his great-cloak, and now he picked up his hat and gloves.

“My Lord Merivale will be charmed to assist you,” he said, with the glimmering of a smile. He bowed low to them all, and was gone.