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  Mr Gudgeon, who was not accustomed to be met with any appearance of sang-froid, was not in the least softened by this speech. He said in a shocked voice: ‘There’s a sauce! Ay, you’re a rare gager, young as you be! Why, you young warmint, and you with your mother’s milk not dry on your lips! You come along, and no bamming, now!’

  A section of the crowd showed a disposition to accompany them, but Mr Gudgeon addressed these gentry in such fierce accents that they dispersed in a hurry, and left him to escort his captive out of the market-place in lonely state.

  ‘You are making a great mistake,’ Pen told the Runner. ‘You are searching for the Brandon diamonds, are you not? Well, I know all about them, and, as a matter of fact, Mr Brandon wishes you to stop searching for them.’

  ‘Ho!’ said Mr Gudgeon, with deep meaning. ‘He does, does he? Dang me, if ever I see the equal of you for sauce!’

  ‘I wish you will listen to me! I know who has the diamonds, and, what is more, he murdered the other Mr Brandon to get them!’

  Mr Gudgeon shook his head in speechless wonder.

  ‘He did, I tell you!’ Pen said desperately. ‘His name is Trimble, and he was in a plot with Jimmy Yarde to steal the necklace! Only it went awry, and the necklace was restored to Mr Beverley Brandon, and then Captain Trimble killed him, and made off with the diamonds. And Mr Cedric Brandon is searching for you high and low, and if you will only go to Queen Charlton you will find him there, and he will tell you that what I say is true!’

  ‘I never heard the like!’ gasped Mr Gudgeon, affronted. ‘A werry thorough-going young rascal you be, and no mistake about that! And how might you come to know such a powerful deal about these sparklers, might I take the liberty of asking?’

  ‘I know Mr Brandon well,’ answered Pen. ‘Both Mr Brandons! And I was in Queen Charlton when the murder was committed. Mr Philips, the magistrate, knows all about me, I assure you!’

  Mr Gudgeon was a little shaken by this announcement, and said more mildly: ‘I don’t say as I disbelieve you, nor I don’t say as I believe you neither; but it’s an unaccountable queer story you’re telling me, young sir, and that’s a fact.’

  ‘Yes, I dare say it may seem so to you,’ Pen agreed. She felt his grip slacken on her arm, and decided to press home her advantage. ‘You had better come with me to Queen Charlton at once, because Mr Brandon wants to see you, and I expect Mr Philips will be very glad of your help in finding Captain Trimble.’

  Mr Gudgeon looked at her sideways. ‘Either I’ve been mistook,’ he said slowly, ‘or you’re the most precious young warmint I ever did see. Maybe I will go to this place you talks about, and maybe while I’m gone you’ll sit waiting for me where you won’t do no harm.’

  They had turned into a broad thoroughfare with streets leading off from it on either side. Pen, who had no intention of returning to Queen Charlton, or of being locked up in Bristol gaol, made up her mind, now that Mr Gudgeon’s grasp on her arm had become little more than perfunctory, to try the chances of escape. She said airily: ‘Just as you please, only I warn you, Mr Brandon will be excessively angry if he hears that you have molested me. Naturally, I do not wish to – Oh, look, look! Quick!’

  They were abreast of one of the side streets by this time, and Pen’s admirable start brought the Runner to a dead halt. She clasped his arm with her free hand, and exclaimed: ‘Over there, just turning into that road! It was he! Captain Trimble! He must have seen me, for he set off running at once! oh, do be quick!’

  ‘Where?’ demanded Mr Gudgeon, taken off his guard, and looking round wildly.

  ‘There! ’ panted Pen, and tore herself free from his hold, and ran like a deer down the side-street.

  She heard a shout behind her, but wasted no time in looking back. A woman engaged in scrubbing her front doorstep set up a cry of Stop, thief ! and an errand boy with a large basket on his arm, gave a shrill cat-call. Pen reached the end of the street with the sound of the hue and cry behind her, turned the corner, sawan alley leading to a huddle of mean dwellings, and sped down it.

  It led her into a labyrinth of narrow streets, with dirty gutters, and crazy cottages, and backyards noisome with the refuse left to rot in them. She had never penetrated into this part of the town before, and was soon quite lost. This circumstance did not trouble her much, however, for the noise of the chase had died away in the rear. She did not think that anyone had seen her dive into the alley so that she was able to entertain a reasonable hope of shaking off the pursuit. She stopped running, and began to walk, rather breathlessly, in what she trusted was an easterly direction. After traversing a number of unknown streets, she came at last to a more respectable part of the town, and ventured to enquire the way to the inn where she had left her cloak-bag. She discovered that she had overshot it, and, further, that the time was now a few minutes after nine. She looked so dismayed that her informant, a stout man in corduroys and a frieze coat, who was just preparing to climb into a gig, asked her whether she wanted the London stagecoach. Upon her admitting that she did, he said philosophically: ‘Well, you’ve missed it.’

  ‘Oh dear, what shall I do?’ said Pen, foreseeing a day spent in skulking about the town to escape discovery by Mr Gudgeon.

  The farmer, who had been looking her over in a ruminative fashion, said: ‘Be you in a hurry?’

  ‘Yes, yes! That is, I have paid for my seat, you see.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to Kingswood myself,’ said the farmer. ‘You can get up alongside me in the gig, if you like. You’ll likely catch up with the stage there.’

  She accepted this offer gratefully, for she thought that even if she did not succeed in overtaking the stage she would be safer from Mr Gudgeon at Kingswood than in Bristol. Happily, however, the farmer was driving a fast-trotting young horse, and they reached the main London road before the heavy stage had drawn out of the town. The farmer set Pen down in Kingswood, at the door of the inn, and having ascertained that the coach had not yet called there, bade her a cheerful farewell, and drove off.

  Feeling that she had escaped disaster by no more than a hair’s breadth, Pen sat down upon the bench outside the inn to await the arrival of the stage. It was late in coming, and the guard, when Pen handed him her ticket, seemed to take it as a personal affront that she had not boarded it in Bristol. He told her, with malign satisfaction, that her cloak-bag had been left behind at the ‘Talbot’ Inn, but after a good deal of grumbling he admitted that she had a right to a seat in the coach, and let down the steps for her to mount into it. She squeezed herself into a place between a fat man, and a woman nursing a peevish infant; the door was shut, the steps let up again, and the vehicle resumed its ponderous journey to London.

  Fourteen

  Sir Richard Wyndham was not an early riser, but he was roused from sleep at an unconscionably early hour upon the morning of Pen’s flight by the boots, who came into his room with a small pile of his linen, which had been laundered in the inn, and his top-boots, and told him diffidently that he was wanted belowstairs.

  Sir Richard groaned, and enquired what time it was. With even greater diffidence, the boots said that it was not quite eight o’clock.

  ‘What the devil?’ exclaimed Sir Richard, bending a pained glance upon him.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ agreed the boots feelingly, ‘but it’s that Major Daubenay, sir, in such a pucker as you never did see!’

  ‘Oh!’ said Sir Richard. ‘It is, is it? The devil fly away with Major Daubenay!’

  The boots grinned, but awaited more precise instructions. Sir Richard groaned again, and sat up. ‘You think I ought to get up, do you? Bring me my shaving water, then.’

  ‘Yessir!’

  ‘Oh, ah! Present my compliments to the Major, and inform him that I shall be with him shortly!’

  The boots went off to execute these commands, and Sir Richard, surveying the beauty of the morn