Sir Hugh put up his glass and surveyed Mr Stubbs’s afflicted nose. “Drew his cork, too,” he observed, with satisfaction.
“No,” replied Sir Tristram. “I fancy Miss Thane deserves the credit for that.”
“I did hit him,” admitted Sarah.
“Good girl!” approved her brother. “A nice, flush hit it must have been. But what were they chasing you for? That’s what beats me.”
“They said I was Ludovic Lavenham, and they arrested me,” said Miss Thane.
Sir Hugh repeated blankly: “Said you were Ludovic Lavenham?” He looked at the Runners again. “They are mad,” he said.
“Drunk more like, sir,” put in the landlord unkindly. “They’ve spent the better part of the afternoon in my taproom, drinking Blue Ruin till you’d wonder they could walk straight.”
A protesting sound came from behind Mr Stubbs’s handkerchief.
“So that’s it, is it?” said Sir Hugh. “You’re right: they reek of gin!”
“It ain’t true, your Honour!” said Mr Peabody, much agitated. “If we had a drop just to keep the cold out—”