"Has he ever been out with us before?"
They breasted the hill as she spoke, to find that the point had ended, as such a run should end—but rarely does—with a kill in the open. The survivors of the front brigade had already dismounted as they came up, and for a few moments no one could think or speak of anything but the run. And it was a Captain Malvin, in one of the Lancer regiments, who recalled the mysterious stranger to the girl's mind.
"Who is that fellow in ratcatcher, Major?" Malvin was standing by her as he spoke, and the girl glanced round to find the subject of his interest.
He had dismounted twenty or thirty yards away, and was making much of his horse, which was completely cooked.
"Saw him in Boddington's," remarked young Dawson. "How the devil did he manage to get here on that?"
"By a process known as riding," said Malvin, briefly. "If you mounted that man on a mule, he'd still be at the top of a hunt—eh, Miss Gollanfield?"
But Molly Gollanfield was staring fascinated at the stranger. "Who did you say it was, Uncle David?" Her voice was low and tense, and Malvin glanced at her in surprise.
"John Marston," returned the secretary, slowly, "is the name he gave me."
And at that moment the man in ratcatcher looked at the girl.
"John Marston," she faltered. "Why—why—it's Danny! Danny, I thought you were dead!"