Unfortunately Lumley did not happen to be out on the memorable day when Mrs. Blagdon was overpowered by her mount, and The Goat, after plunging and rearing,—frantic at being held in, and stimulated by galloping horses, let himself go,—and, with a light weight on his back, carried his reluctant rider in the very first flight, for two triumphant miles. It was true she was frozen with fear, her heart thumped like a turbine engine; but she passed Connie Rashleigh as an arrow from a bow, and cut down the Baron and the redoubtable Lola. Such was The Goat’s enthusiasm, such his passion for the chase, that he followed hard upon the hounds; vainly did the huntsman yell and swear, the lady was helpless—this was The Goat’s day out! It was also his last day. In negotiating a yawning fence (wired) he came down badly, and a thrill went through the spectators—Mrs. Blagdon was done for—she was killed! No, The Goat had broken his back, but the lady escaped with a fractured arm, and some bad bruises. Presently a carriage and a gun were borrowed, the former for the lady; and she was taken home by her husband, who, far from being concerned and sympathetic, was furious at the loss of a valuable hunter, and angrily assured her that “she was a little idiot to let the brute get away with her. Why, Connie could ride him on a thread!”
Letty was a good deal shaken, her fracture was excessively painful, and the doctor ordered her to keep her room for at least a fortnight, which command she was only too thankful to obey. Her nerves were completely shattered; she was visited by horrid dreams; dreams of flying over great ragged brown hedges, with the wind whistling past her ears, a fierce, implacable demon pulling her arms out of their sockets, whilst she and the runaway were pursued by frenzied shouts.
During these days of seclusion, the invalid saw but little of her guests—by whom the absence of the hostess was not deplored. Now and then, Connie Rashleigh and Lola came to see her, and Hugo paid her a daily visit of a few minutes. One evening he stayed longer than usual, and strode up and down the room—a sure sign that he had something on his mind. His restlessness was accounted for by his suddenly asking her to “let him have a look at the necklace with the emeralds.”
“Tell your maid to get it,” he said. “The fact is, I bought that necklace for Lola Corbett, but we had a row, or rather she annoyed me, and so I gave it to you. All the same, she’s always looked upon the article as hers, and it has rankled in her mind, and she is so cracked about jewellery, and has ragged and nagged so much about this damned necklace, that I feel bound to give it to her. You’ll let me have it, won’t you, Letty?”
His manner was almost persuasive. He was saying to himself that if he had made a similar proposition to Lola she would have flown into a rage, that would have scared even him; but all his wife said was:
“Oh, of course! Desirée shall get it out at once, and I will send it to your room.”
“That’s a good little girl,” he remarked approvingly. (To himself, ‘She hadn’t the spirit of a mouse! He would really have enjoyed a little bit of a scrap!’) “All right,” he continued, “I will get you another, and just as good, the very next time I am in Paris.”
“No, no, Hugo,” she protested. “I really have more diamonds and things than I can wear. But there is something else—I—I—I wish you would give me.”
Blagdon, who was half-way to the door, halted.
“What’s that?” he demanded, turning sharply round.