“No, no, child, put up!” said Madam, laughing. “We know a trick worth two of that. We must have the fox out of his earth, though.”
“Stay you there,” said her brother, and went out into the courtyard, and called to John, his servant.
John came.
“Who’s the owner of the post-chaise, John?” inquired Mr Merriot.
The answer was severe. “It’s a Mr Markham, sir, running off to Gretna with a rich heiress, so they say. And the lady not out of her teens. There’s wickedness!”
“John’s propriety is offended,” murmured Miss Merriot. “We will dispose, John, since God seems unwilling. I want a stir made.”
“Best not meddle,” said John phlegmatically. “We’ve meddled enough.”
“A cry of fire,” mused Mr Merriot. “Fire or footpads. Where do I lie hid?”
“Oh, are you with me already?” admired Kate. “Let me have a fire, John, or a parcel of daring footpads, and raise the ostlers.”
John fetched a sigh. “We’ve played that trick once before. Will you never be still?”