It had begun to rain an hour ago, a fine driving mist with the sky grey above. The gentleman riding beside the chaise surveyed the clouds placidly. “Faith, it’s a wonderful climate,” he remarked of no one in particular.

The grizzled serving man who rode some paces to the rear spurred up to him. “Best put up for the night, sir,” he grunted. “There’s an inn a mile or two on.”

The window of the chaise was let down with a clatter, and a lady looked out. “Child, you’ll be wet,” she said to her cavalier. “How far to Norman Cross?”

The serving man rode up close to the chaise. “Another hour, ma’am. I’m saying we’d best put up for the night.”

“I’d as soon make Norman Cross,” said the gentleman, “for all it’s plaguily damp.”

“There’s an inn close by, as I remember,” the servant repeated, addressing himself to the lady.

“En avant,then. Produce me the inn,” the lady said. “Give you joy of your England, Peter my little man.”

The gentleman laughed. “Oh, it’s a comforting spot, Kate.”

The inn came soon into sight, a square white house glimmering through the dusk. There were lights in the windows, and a post-chaise drawn up in the court before it.

The gentleman came lightly down from the saddle. He was of medium height, and carried himself well. He had a neat leg encased in a fine riding boot, and a slender hand in an embroidered gauntlet.

There was straight-way a bustle at the inn. An ostler came running; mine host appeared in the porch with a bow and a scrape and a waiting man sped forth to assist in letting down the steps of the chaise.

“Two bedchambers, for myself and my sister,” said the gentleman. “Dinner, and a private room.”