The answer was severe. “It’s a Mr Markham, sir, running off to Gretna with a rich heiress, so they say. And the lady not out of her teens. There’s wickedness!”

“John’s propriety is offended,” murmured Miss Merriot. “We will dispose, John, since God seems unwilling. I want a stir made.”

“Best not meddle,” said John phlegmatically. “We’ve meddled enough.”

“A cry of fire,” mused Mr Merriot. “Fire or footpads. Where do I lie hid?”

“Oh, are you with me already?” admired Kate. “Let me have a fire, John, or a parcel of daring footpads, and raise the ostlers.”

John fetched a sigh. “We’ve played that trick once before. Will you never be still?”

Mr Merriot laughed. “It’s a beauty in distress, John, and Kate must be up and doing.”

A grunt only was vouchsafed, and the glimmering of a grim smile. John went out. Arose presently in the courtyard a shout, and a glow, and quickly uproar.

“Now I wonder how he made that fire?” said Miss Merriot, amused.

“There’s a shed and some straw. Enough for John. Well, it’s a fine stir.” Mr Merriot went to the window. “Mine host leads the household out in force. The wood’s so damp ’twill be out in a moment. Do your part, sister.”

Mr Merriot vanished into the deserted taproom.

Miss Merriot added then to the stir by a scream, close followed by another, and a cry of — “Fire, fire! Help, oh help!”

The door across the passage was burst open, and a dark gentleman strode out. “What in hell’s name — ?” he began. His face was handsome in the swarthy style, but flushed now with wine. His eye lighted on Miss Merriot, and a smell of burning assailed his nostrils. “What’s the noise? Gad, is the place on fire?” He came quickly into the coffee-room, and received Miss Merriot in his unwilling arms. Miss Merriot neatly tripped up her chair, and with a moan of “Save me!” collapsed onto Mr Markham’s chest.