The manoeuvre that had succeeded so well with the first chaise, succeeded again. The postilions, alarmed to find no less than four ruffians descending on them, drew up in a hurry. Captain Heron once more covered them with his pistol, and the Viscount dashed up to the chaise, shouting in as gruff a voice as he could assume: “Stand and deliver there! Come on, out of that!”
There were two gentlemen in the chaise. The younger of them started forward, levelling a small pistol. The other laid a hand on his wrist. “Don’t fire, my dear boy,” he said placidly “I would really rather that you did not.”
The Viscount’s pistol hand dropped. He uttered a smothered exclamation.
“Wrong again!” growled Mr Hawkins disgustedly.
The Earl of Rule stepped unhurriedly down on to the road. His placid gaze rested on the Viscount’s mare. “Dear me!” he said. “And—er—what do you want me to deliver, Pelham?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Not long after four o’clock a furious knocking was heard on the door of the Earl of Rule’s town house. Horatia, who was on her way upstairs to change her gown, stopped and turned pale. When the porter opened the door and she saw Sir Roland Pommeroy on the doorstep without his hat, she gave a shriek, and sped down the stairs again. “Good G-God, what has happened?” she cried.
Sir Roland, who seemed much out of breath, bowed punctiliously. “Apologize unseemly haste, ma’am! Must beg a word in private!”
“Yes, yes, of c-course!” said Horatia, and dragged him into the library. “Someone’s k-killed? Oh, n-not Pelham? Not P-Pelham?”
“No, ma’am, upon my honour! Nothing of that sort. Most unfortunate chance! Pel desired me to apprise you instantly. Rode home post-haste—left my horse nearest stables—ran round to wait on you. Not a moment to lose!”