By this time Moggridge was coming close upon them.
“You won’t forget a poor soldier?” said Mr Beveridge in a lower voice.
There was no reply.
“A poor soldier,” he added, with a sigh, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “So poor that even if I had got out, I could only have ridden till I dropped.”
“Would you accept——?” she began, timidly.
“What day?” he interrupted, hurriedly.
“Tuesday,” she hesitated.
“Four o’clock, again. Same place as before. When I whistle throw it over at once.”
Before they had time to say more, Moggridge, blood- and gravel-stained, came up.
“It’s all right, miss,” he said, coming between them; “I’ll see that he plays no more of ’is tricks. There’s nothin’ to be afrightened of.”