The coachman seemed rather discomposed. “You’ve killed the other, my lord.”

“Certainly,” said the gentleman. “But I presume you have not opened the door to inform me of that.”

“Well, my lord — shan’t we — do I — his brains are lying in the road, my lord. Do we leave him — like that?”

“My good fellow, are you suggesting that I should carry a footpad’s corpse to my Lady Montacute’s drum?”

“No, my lord,” the coachman said hesitatingly. “Then — then — shall I drive on?”

“Of course drive on,” said the gentleman, faintly surprised.

“Very good, my lord,” the coachman said, and shut the door.

The groom on the box was still clasping the blunderbuss, and staring fascinated at the tumbled figure in the road. When the coachman climbed up on to the box again, and gathered the reins in his hands, he said: “Gawd, ain’t you going to do anything?”

“There isn’t anything you can do for him,” replied the other grimly.

“His head’s almost shot off!” shuddered the groom.

The equipage began to move forward. “Hold your tongue, can’t you? He’s dead, and that’s all there is to it.”

The groom licked his dry lips. “But don’t his lordship know?”

“Of course he knows. He don’t make mistakes, not with the pistols.”

The groom drew a deep breath, thinking still of the dead man left to wallow in his blood. “How old is he?” he blurted out presently.

“Twenty-four all but a month or two.”

“Twenty-four! and shoots his man and leaves the corpse as cool as you please! My Gawd!”

He did not speak again until the coach had arrived at its destination, and then he seemed to be so lost in meditation that the coachman had to nudge him sharply. He roused himself then and jumped off the box to open the coach door. As his master stepped languidly down, he looked covertly at him, trying to see some sign of agitation in his face. There was none. His lordship sauntered up the steps to the stone porch, and passed into the lighted hall.