The man in black looked at him with interest.
"You carry a pistol, sir?" I asked politely of the popinjay.
He tapped his pocket significantly.
"There is none would dare assail me," he boasted; and miss cast him a glance of admiration.
"We put ourselves in Mr Harringay's hands," explained the old gentleman cheerily. "He is our escort."
I thought I saw a smile on the face of the man in black, and I could not help meeting it; but his suddenly faded away, and he looked out at the moor, on which the snow and the wind were threshing. The old coach was lurching on, as if she had been a packet in a storm.
"I shall be sick. My stomach heaves," cried the fat woman, and applied her smelling-salts; whereat she was attended by her husband and her daughter, and, lying back, seemed to pass off into sleep.
"'Tis a wild night," says the old man. "I misdoubt we shall fetch Petersfield."
"Why, that we shall," said I cheerfully, "unless these same gentry you speak of play us a trick."