‘That it what you do mean, is it?  Then that’s settled.’  I rang the bell.  The servant came.  ’Order a four-wheeled cab at once.  And let me know the moment Mr Holt is ready.’  The servant went.  I turned to Sydney.  ’If you will excuse me, I will go and put my hat on.  You are, of course, at liberty to please yourself as to whether you will or will not go, but, if you don’t, then I shall go with Mr Holt alone.’

I moved to the door.  He stopped me.

’My dear Marjorie, why will you persist in treating me with such injustice?  Believe me, you have no idea what sort of adventure this is which you are setting out upon,—­or you would hear reason.  I assure you that you are gratuitously proposing to thrust yourself into imminent peril.’

’What sort of peril?  Why do you beat about the bush,—­why don’t you speak right out?’

’I can’t speak right out, there are circumstances which render it practically impossible—­and that’s the plain truth,—­but the danger is none the less real on that account.  I am not jesting,—­I am in earnest; won’t you take my word for it?’

’It is not a question of taking your word only,—­it is a question of something else beside.  I have not forgotten my adventures of last night,—­and Mr Holt’s story is mysterious enough in itself; but there is something more mysterious still at the back of it,—­ something which you appear to suggest points unpleasantly at Paul.  My duty is clear, and nothing you can say will turn me from it.  Paul, as you are very well aware, is already over-weighted with affairs of state, pretty nearly borne down by them,—­or I would take the tale to him, and he would talk to you after a fashion of his own.  Things being as they are, I propose to show you that, although I am not yet Paul’s wife, I can make his interests my own as completely as though I were.  I can, therefore, only repeat that it is for you to decide what you intend to do; but, if you prefer to stay, I shall go with Mr Holt,—­alone.’

’Understand that, when the time for regret comes—­as it will come!—­you are not to blame me for having done what I advised you not to do.’

’My dear Mr Atherton, I will undertake to do my utmost to guard your spotless reputation; I should be sorry that anyone should hold you responsible for anything I either said or did.’

‘Very well!—­Your blood be on your own head!’

‘My blood?’

’Yes,—­your blood.  I shouldn’t be surprised if it comes to blood before we’re through.—­Perhaps you’ll oblige me with the loan of one of that arsenal of revolvers of which you spoke.’

I let him have his old revolver,—­or, rather, I let him have one of papa’s new ones.  He put it in the hip pocket in his trousers.  And the expedition started,—­in a four-wheeled car.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE HOUSE ON THE ROAD FROM THE WORKHOUSE