Feeling as if the whole business was some extraordinary dream, the young pugilist passed through a network of secluded lanes, until the phaeton drew up at a wicket gate which led into a plantation of firs, choked with a thick undergrowth. Here the lady descended and beckoned Spring to alight.
“Wait down the lane,” said she to the coachman. “We shall be some little time. Now, Mr. Spring, will you kindly follow me? I have written a letter which makes an appointment.”
She passed swiftly through the plantation by a tortuous path, then over a stile, and past another wood, loud with the deep chuckling of pheasants. At the farther side was a fine rolling park, studded with oak trees, and stretching away to a splendid Elizabethan mansion, with balustraded terraces athwart its front. Across the park, and making for the wood, a solitary figure was walking.
The lady gripped the prize-fighter by the wrist. “That is your man,” said she.
They were standing under the shadow of the trees, so that he was very visible to them, while they were out of his sight. Tom Spring looked hard at the man, who was still some hundreds of yards away. He was a tall, powerful fellow, clad in a blue coat with gilt buttons, which gleamed in the sun. He had white corded breeches and riding-boots. He walked with a vigorous step, and with every few strides he struck his leg with a dog-whip which hung from his wrist. There was a great suggestion of purpose and of energy in the man’s appearance and bearing.
“Why, he’s a gentleman!” said Spring. “Look ‘ere, ma’am, this is all a bit out of my line. I’ve nothing against the man, and he can mean me no harm. What am I to do with him?”
“Fight him! Smash him! That is what you are here for.”
Tom Spring turned on his heel with disgust. “I’m here to fight, ma’am, but not to smash a man who has no thought of fighting. It’s off.”
“You don’t like the look of him,” hissed the woman. “You have met your master.”
“That is as may be. It is no job for me.”