"Till 'Barnaby Bright,'" said Barnabas.

At this she smiled, a little tremulously perhaps.

"May heaven prosper you in your mission," said she, and turned away.

"Young sir," said the Captain, "always remember my name is Chumly,

John Chumly, plain and unvarnished, and, whether we refuse you or not,

John Chumly will ever be ready to take you by the hand. Farewell, sir!"

So tyrant and captive turned away and went down the by-road together, and his solitary arm was close about her. But Barnabas stood there under the finger-post until a bend in the road hid them; then he, too, sighed and turned away. Yet he had gone only a little distance when he heard a voice calling him, and, swinging round, he saw Cleone standing under the finger-post.

"I wanted to give you—this," said she, as he came striding back, and held out a folded paper. "It is his—my brother's—letter. Take it with you, it will serve to show you what a boy he is, and will tell you where to find him."

So Barnabas took the letter and thrust it into his pocket. But she yet stood before him, and now, once again, their glances avoided each other.

"I also wanted to—ask you—about your cheek," said she at last.

"Yes?" said Barnabas.

"You are quite sure it doesn't—pain you, Mr. Bev—"

"Must I remind you that my name—"

"Are you quite sure—Barnabas?"

"Quite sure—yes, oh yes!" he stammered.

"Because it—glows very red!" she sighed, though indeed she still kept her gaze averted, "so will you please—stoop your head a little?"

Wonderingly Barnabas obeyed, and then—even as he did so, she leaned swiftly towards him, and for an instant her soft, warm mouth rested upon his cheek. Then, before he could stay her, she was off and away; and her flying feet had borne her out of sight.

Then Barnabas sighed, and would have followed, but the ancient finger-post barred his way with its two arms pointing:—

TO HAWKHURST. TO LONDON.

So he stopped, glanced about him to fix the hallowed place in his memory, and, obeying the directing finger, set off London-wards.

CHAPTER XXIII

HOW BARNABAS SAVED HIS LIFE—BECAUSE HE WAS AFRAID

On went Barnabas swift of foot and light of heart, walking through a World of Romance, and with his eyes turned up to the luminous heaven. Yet it was neither of the moon, nor the stars, nor the wonder thereof that he was thinking, but only of the witchery of a woman's eyes, and the thrill of a woman's lips upon his cheek; and, indeed, what more natural, more right, and altogether proper? Little recked he of the future, of the perils and dangers to be encountered, of the sorrows and tribulations that lay in wait for him, or of the enemies that he had made that day, for youth is little given to brooding, and is loftily indifferent to consequences.

So it was of Lady Cleone Meredith he thought as he strode along the moonlit highway, and it was of her that he was thinking as he turned into that narrow by-lane where stood "The Spotted Cow." As he advanced, he espied some one standing in the shadow of one of the great trees, who, as he came nearer, stepped out into the moonlight; and then Barnabas saw that it was none other than his newly engaged valet. The same, yet not the same, for the shabby clothes had given place to a sober, well-fitting habit, and as he took off his hat in salutation, Barnabas noticed that his hollow cheeks were clean and freshly shaved; he was, indeed, a new man.

But now, as they faced each other, Barnabas observed something else; John Peterby's lips were compressed, and in his eye was anxiety, the which had, somehow, got into his voice when he spoke, though his tone was low and modulated: "Sir, if you are for London to-night, we had better start at once, the coach leaves Tenterden within the hour."

"But," says Barnabas, setting his head aslant, and rubbing his chin with the argumentative air that was so very like his father, "I have ordered supper here, Peterby."

"Which—under the circumstances—I have ventured to countermand, sir."

"Oh?" said Barnabas, "pray, what circumstances?"

"Sir, as I told you, the mail—"

"John Peterby, speak out—what is troubling you?"

But now, even while Peterby stood hesitating, from the open casement of the inn, near at hand, came the sound of a laugh: a soft, gentle, sibilant laugh which Barnabas immediately recognized.

"Ah!" said he, clenching his fist. "I think I understand." As he turned towards the inn, Peterby interposed.

"Sir," he whispered, "sir, if ever a man meant mischief—he does. He came back an hour ago, and they have been waiting for you ever since."

"They?"

"He and the other."

"What other?"

"Sir, I don't know."

"Is he a very—young man, this other?"

"Yes, sir, he seems so. And they have been drinking together and—I've heard enough to know that they mean you harm." But here Master Barnabas smiled with all the arrogance of youth and shook his head.

"John Peterby," said he, "learn that the first thing I desire in my valet is obedience. Pray stand out of my way!" So, perforce Peterby stood aside, yet Barnabas had scarce taken a dozen strides ere Clemency stood before him.

"Go back," she whispered, "go back!"

"Impossible," said Barnabas, "I have a mission to fulfil."

"Go back!" she repeated in the same tense whisper, "you must—oh, you must! I've heard he has killed a man before now—"

"And yet I must see and speak with his companion."

"No, no—ah! I pray you—"

"Nay," said Barnabas, "if you will, and if need be, pray for me." So saying he put her gently aside, and entering the inn, came to the door of that room wherein he had written the letter to his father.

"I tell you I'll kill him, Dalton," said a soft, deliberate voice.

"Undoubtedly; the light's excellent; but, my dear fellow, why—?"

"I object to him strongly, for one thing, and—"

The voice was hushed suddenly, as Barnabas set wide the door and stepped into the room, with Peterby at his heels.