‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Harry, climbing up beside him into the gig. ‘After all, you and Jack—!’

‘Don’t waste your breath on me!’ recommended Tom. ‘Try what Jack will say to you! If I know him you’ll have a short answer!’

‘You couldn’t expect Jack to draw back,’ said Harry.

‘I don’t!’

‘No, but I mean it wasn’t his challenge! You were foxed, Tom—you know you were!’

‘No, I was not,’ said Tom.

‘Dash it, to call a man out only because he jostles you in a doorway, without in the least meaning to—’

‘It wasn’t that,’ answered Tom. ‘And it’s no use to prose at me—I shan’t listen!’

So Harry said no more, and the rest of the drive was accomplished in silence. They came punctually on to the ground, just as a white-winged curricle with a pair of magnificent bays harnessed in the bar bowled up the broad woodland ride. Only two men sat in it, nor was there any sign of a doctor. Tom wondered if his stolid second would point this omission out to Sir Gavin. It was not, he decided, for himself to mention the matter. He stole one look at Jack, alighting from the curricle, and casting off the drab overcoat he wore, and then averted his gaze. Jack was still wearing his flint-face, and his eyes did not warm an atom as fleetingly they met his. Tom looked instead at those match-bays, thinking how much he would like to ask Jack if they were the sweet-goers they looked to be, and whether Sir Gavin had allowed him to handle the ribbons.

Sir Gavin was walking unhurriedly across the clearing to meet Harry. He wore top-boots polished till you might almost see your face in them; and a many-caped benjamin; and he carried an ominous case under one arm. He and Harry conferred together, and inspected the wicked-looking weapons in that case, and paced out the ground. Tom felt queasy, and rather cold, and a leaden weight seemed to have settled in his chest. He wished the seconds would make haste: they were being maddeningly deliberate. Another glance at Jack showed him that Jack was perfectly cool and collected, only rather pale.