“If it comes to that, what are you doing here?”
“I am going to London,” replied Eustacie.
“Oh!” said the young man, rather doubtfully. “It’s no concern of mine, of course, but it’s a plaguey queer time to be going to London, isn’t it?”
“No, because I am going to catch the night mail at Hand Cross. You must instantly let me go, or I shall be too late.”
The other man, who had been listening in scowling silence, muttered: “She’ll have the pack of them down on us!”
“Be damned to you, don’t croak so!” said the young man. “Tether that nag of hers!”
“If you let her go—”
“I’m not going to let her go. You keep a look-out for Abel, and stop spoiling sport!”
“But certainly you are going to let me go!” interposed Eustacie in an urgent undertone. “I must go!”
The young man said apologetically: “The devil’s in it that I can’t let you go. I would if I could, but to tell you the truth—”