The Beau, keeping his would-be captor covered, reached the door, and Miss Thane, behind him, caught his arm and bore it downwards with all her strength. He was taken unawares, gave a snarl of fury, and wrenching free from her clutch struck at her with his clenched fist. The blow landed on her temple, and Miss Thane subsided in an inanimate heap on the floor.
She became aware of a throbbing pain in her head, of the smell of Hungary Water, and of the feel of a wet cloth across her brow. “Oh dear!” she said faintly. “The quizzing-glass! Did he get away?”
“By no means,” replied a calm voice. “There is nothing to worry you: we have him safely held.”
Miss Thane ventured to open her eyes. Sir Tristram was sitting on the edge of the couch in the parlour on which she had been laid, bathing her forehead. “Oh, it’s you!” said Miss Thane.
“Yes,” said Sir Tristram.
“I knew you must have returned,” murmured Miss Thane.
He replied in his cool way: “If you knew that, what in the world possessed you to try and stop the Beau? He had no hope of escaping. I was outside with a Runner to take him if he broke from Townsend.”
“Well, pray how was I to know that?” demanded Miss Thane.
“I imagine you might have guessed it.”
She closed her eyes again, saying with dignity: “I have the headache.”