"Sir Bryan, I can't. I've promised——Oh, you've no right!"
Lumsden swung himself out of the saddle.
"At any rate, you're not going to walk any further in those thin shoes and sit four hours in a train with wet feet. Come! up you get. The lane gets worse the farther you go."
With sudden docility she put her dressing-case down on the wet grass.
"That's right! Put your foot here. Steady—Greaser! Don't be afraid. He's quite blown; going's far too heavy to-day. Now take the bag in your lap. What's in it, Flash? Diamonds?"
He looked at her quizzically as he laid the reins over his shoulder.
"For two two's I'd come up with you to London. Oh, don't look so frightened. It's only an impulse. I've been fighting impulses every day for the last fortnight. I don't want to worry you," he went on, as the horse began to pick his way downhill with stiff, tired legs; "but you'll have to give some reason for all this. Did you leave any message behind?"
She shook her head.
"Then we'll have to fake a telegram. You simply can't leave like this, and that's all there is about it. Hullo! who's this?"
A small boy in corduroys and with a red badge on his arm was drifting up the lane toward them, examining the hedge-rows first on one side, then on another, in search of diversion. At Lumsden's call he started and adopted a more official gait.