“It is impossible, ma’am!” declared the landlord. “The house is as full as it can hold. Every room is engaged! I should have to turn some gentleman out to oblige you.”

“Then do so,” said Judith.

The landlord looked imploringly towards Peregrine. “You must see, sir, I can’t help myself. I’m very sorry for the fault, but there’s no help for it, and indeed the company is not what the lady would like.”

“Judith, it does seem that we shall have to go elsewhere,” said Peregrine reasonably. “Perhaps Stamford—I could see the fight from there, or even farther.”

“Certainly not,” said Judith. “You heard what this man said, that he believed there is not a room to be had this side of Norman’s Cross. I do not mean to go on such a wild-goose chase. Our rooms were bespoken here, and if a mistake has been made it must be set right.”

Her voice, which was very clear, seemed to have reached the ears of a group of persons standing over against the window. One or two curious glances were directed towards her, and after a moment’s hesitation a man who had been watching Miss Taverner from the start came across the room, and made her a bow.

“I beg pardon—I do not wish to intrude, but there seems to be some muddle. I should be glad to place my rooms at your disposal, ma’am, if you would do me the honour of accepting them.”

The man at her elbow looked to be between twenty-seven and thirty years of age. His manner proclaimed the gentleman; he had a decided air of fashion; and his countenance, without being handsome, was sufficiently pleasing. Judith sketched a curtsy. “You are very good, sir, but you are not to be giving up your rooms to two strangers.”

He smiled. “No such thing, ma’am. We cannot tell but what my rooms should properly be yours. My friend and I—” he made a slight gesture as though to indicate someone in the group behind him—“have acquaintances in the neighbourhood, and may readily command a lodging at Hungerton Lodge. I—rather I should say we—are happy to be of service.”