The fugitive’s feet were only just above his reach, and in another five seconds the fugitive descended into his arms with a rush that made him stagger, and almost lose his balance. He retained it by a miracle, clasping strongly to his chest an unexpectedly light body.
Sir Richard was not precisely sober, but although the brandy fumes had produced in his brain a not unpleasant sense of irresponsibility, they had by no means fuddled his intellect. Sir Richard, his chin tickled by curls, and his arms full of fugitive, made a surprising discovery. He set the fugitive down, saying in a matter-of-fact voice: “Yes, but I don’t think you are a youth, after all.”
“No, I’m a girl,” replied the fugitive, apparently undismayed by his discovery. “But, please, will you come away before they wake up?”
“Who?” asked Sir Richard.
“My aunt—all of them!” whispered the fugitive. “I am very much obliged to you for helping me—and do you think you could untie this knot, if you please? You see, I had to tie my bundle on my back, and now I can’t undo it. And where is my hat?”
“It fell off,” said Sir Richard, picking it up, and dusting it on his sleeve. “I am not quite sober, you know—in fact, I am drunk—but I cannot help feeling that this is all a trifle—shall we say—irregular?”
“Yes, but there was nothing else to be done,” explained the fugitive, trying to look over her own shoulder at what Sir Richard was doing with the recalcitrant knot.
“Oblige me by standing still!” requested Sir Richard.
“Oh, I am sorry! I can’t think how it worked right round me like that. Thank you! I am truly grateful to you!”
Sir Richard was eyeing the bundle through his quizzing-glass. “Are you a burglar?” he enquired.