Peckover felt that he must have a few minutes' solitude in which to think out the solution of the awkward problem. "Hadn't you better go and fetch her in, while I tell Lord Quorn?" he suggested.

"I will," was the answer, given with a violent suddenness which made Peckover start. "And when I catch sight of his lordship," added the amiable zealot, "I'll astonish him. I'll--I'll make him jump."

"You'll astonish a good many people besides if you do," murmured Peckover dryly, as the bully flung off through the window. Here was a pretty situation. Was the good time he was enjoying and promising himself to turn into ash like a pipe of tobacco? Already the _soi-disant_ Lord Quorn was complaining--and with some justice--that he was not having much fun for his money. Would he be likely to continue paying five thousand a year for the privilege of marrying an undesirable colonial maiden with the alternative of having his arms and legs snapped, possibly his nose slit and his eyes gouged out, if he refused? Not likely. Nor that he would care to wear the t.i.tle when he found it carried so little fun and so many inconveniences with it. But what was he, Percy Peckover, to do? The situation baffled him.

Temporize was all he could think of; temporize till he could hit on some expedient for ridding the position of this awkward element which threatened to spoil it. It was certainly exasperating just when he had settled down into a good thing to have to return to the hard world of work which he hated, poverty which he loathed, and his own ident.i.ty of which he stood in terror. But this great noisy bully--ugh! how he would like to----

His bitter meditations were interrupted by footsteps on the path and next moment the _bete noire_ reappeared, this time with the lady. The first anxious glance at her did nothing to dissipate Peckover's apprehensions. A fine woman she was certainly, according to the popular acceptation of the term--tall and ma.s.sive, but coa.r.s.e and off-hand almost to vulgarity. She had challenging black eyes, a nose which the most casual glance could never overlook, and a determined mouth and jaw. Her hair was cut short like a man's, and in her hand she swung a substantial ash stick which she seemed quite capable of using to enforce any argument which verbal persuasion had failed to drive home. As to her dress, it was of masculine cut, the skirt being deeply edged with leather. Altogether she was a formidable and workmanlike young woman.

Peckover had taken the precaution to latch the French window. Finding it did not yield to his heavy hand, the gentleman from Australia applied his boot to it and burst it open.

"This rotten window sticks," he remarked by way of apology. "Come in, Lalage. Mind the gla.s.s. This," he said aggressively to Peckover, "is my poor deceived sister, Miss Lalage Leo. My name is Carnaby Leo.

Now, where's Lord Quorn?"

"In bed," answered Peckover manfully.

"What?" roared Mr. Leo.

"You need not shout," Peckover suggested, fearful that the noise might reach other ears and occasion complications. "We had an accident on the lake the other day, and he has been in bed ever since."

"We've heard of it," said Miss Leo, speaking for the first time. Her tone was as downright and masculine as her appearance. "And are you the rich young man who was rescued from drowning?"

"I am."

Brother and sister exchanged glances, and the glances, Peckover told himself, foretold a further complication.

"Lord Quorn is very seriously ill," he said impressively. "Took a bad chill, and is suffering from congestion and--and fever. It is quite impossible that you should see him for at least a fortnight, if he isn't dead by that date."

"I'll see him, dead or alive," shouted Mr. Leo, who was making a tour of inspection round the apartment.

"Be calm, Carnaby," said his sister casually.

"It would kill him," observed Peckover, with conviction.

"Killing's too good for him," returned Carnaby, loudly.

"Hush, Carnaby!" the lady commanded.

"He is delirious," said Peckover, warming to his work.

"I'll bring him to his senses," growled Leo.

"Better leave him to me for the present," suggested Miss Leo.

"He wouldn't recognize you, or you him," said Peckover, for once touching upon the truth.

"I'll soon let him know who we are," bellowed Mr. Leo, "and what we are--and what he is."

"Impossible, while he's in this state," Peckover maintained. "If you kill him----"

"Good job too!" Mr. Leo interpolated.

"He won't be much good for matrimonial purposes."

"True," Miss Leo admitted.

Peckover had noticed with some discomfort that of late her eyes had rested on him with increasing interest. He was always typically alive to the slightest sign of female attraction to himself, but this particular attention did not produce in him the usual sportive complacency. The situation was becoming tense. The very complexity of his position took from Peckover his usual volubility. Then he bethought himself of certain alcoholic sustenance which he and Gage kept in a closed cabinet in order to be able to indulge in it at uncanonical hours without the fuss of ringing and ordering drinks.

_n.o.blesse oblige_, the new-fangled peer had observed in reference to his obligation to hide the evidence of irregular refreshment.

"Have a drink?" he suggested, as he whipped out a decanter of derelict sherry which a foraging tour of the cellars had discovered.

Mr. Carnaby Leo's interest in his surroundings seemed to deepen at the suggestion. "I will," he promptly responded, as he swooped down upon the wine. "Sherry!" He p.r.o.nounced the word with a contortion of his fat face which might be construed into an indication of preference for some other beverage not immediately forthcoming; but he drank it, gulping down a gla.s.s at a swallow, nevertheless.

Suddenly Miss Leo turned to Peckover. "You are not married?" she demanded with startling significance.

"Not yet," he answered, blanching.

"Engaged?"

She stood over him breathing a fell design, her black eyes transfixing him, and seeming to wither his flippant courage to the very root.

Still he made a feebly desperate effort to stave it off. "Not quite.

Almost. Practically," he stammered.

"That's a trifle," the lady returned with masterful decisiveness.

"Easily got over." Then to his relief she turned her blighting gaze from him and directed it meditatively to the expanse of park beyond the window. "I think," she said musingly, "that in any event I see my way out."

"Yes, that is the best way out," murmured Peckover as loudly as he dared, following her gaze.

But she ignored the rash speech, and for some moments the silence was broken only by the smacking of Mr. Leo's lips as he endeavoured to impart gusto into his occupation.

Peckover, dreading the next words, was about to call attention to the beauty of the landscape when Miss Leo suddenly turned upon him, and, as though struck by an exceptionally brilliant idea, said--"In the event of my not being Lady Quorn, why should I not marry you?"

"Oh, bother!" Peckover was startled into the expression of disagreement. "Why should you?" he objected manfully.

"If I set my mind upon it," she said, with a dangerous look in her eye.

"Please take it off," he protested. "Lord Quorn is my friend; he saved my life, I could not be so base as to rob him of you."

"No," the lady replied dryly, "you wouldn't if I wanted him. But I'm not so sure about it. Anyhow, in case the poor fellow doesn't get better, why, he couldn't complain."

"No, that would be my work," Peckover reflected anxiously.

"Weak stuff, this," exclaimed Mr. Leo. "Brandy neat is my sauce.

Can't taste sherry."

"It's not for want of trying," Peckover thought, as he noticed the almost empty decanter, but he did not say so.

"Isn't he a fine fellow?" murmured Miss Leo, with an unwelcome approach to affectionate confidence. "Be nice to him and he'll soon take to you."

"He has soon taken to the sherry," was Peckover's mental commentary.