As if in answer to her unspoken question, the coach swung off the road and began to rumble up the bumpy, weedy drive of some wilderness of an estate.

Mr. Funk removed his handkerchief and heaved an audible sigh of relief.

“My cousin’s,” he said cheerfully.

“What is her name?” asked Alice.

“Name. Oh! Emily Jeebles.”

“Another Jeebles?” said Miss Fadden, her pale eyes boring into him.

“Er… yes… the Mrs. Jeebles we were talking about earlier is by way of being a relative. Lots of Jeebles among my relatives,” said Mr. Funk transferring the handkerchief to his brow where a thin film of sweat had broken out.

Miss Fadden felt a cold hand clutch her heart. But the day was so dark, so ominous, that surely that was what was giving rise to her fears.

The carriage swung round and came to a stop in front of a bleak, square brick house with a pedimented entrance.

“Pray go inside and warm yourselves,” said Mr. Funk after he had helped the ladies to alight “I must see that this fellow stables the cattle properly.”

“It is odd that you should care so much about rented horses,” said Miss Fadden, her voice losing its usual meek tones and sounding loud and harsh in the still, cold air.

Driven to thespian heights by sheer fear, Mr. Funk burst into a well-simulated rage. “You get above yourself, madam,” he said sharply. “I did not make my fortune by ignoring the pennies. These horses, I would remind you, are rented and should I return them in poor condition then I shall have to pay for them.” He turned impatiently to Alice. “My lady,” he protested, “cannot you get this woman of yours to keep a still tongue in her head?”

But Alice had come out of her dreams and was beginning to share Miss Fadden’s fears. “I do not think I want to meet your cousin,” she said. “I think I would like to return… now.”

Mr. Funk clutched at his head, knocking his wig to one side. “Gad’s ’oonds!” he howled. “We are only staying for ten minutes.”

“Oh, very well,” sighed Alice.

At that moment, Miss Fadden espied the sharp features of Harry Russell peering from behind a dingy curtain on the ground-floor window to the right of the door. She recognized him as Webb’s friend who always seemed to be spying on Alice.

Her fears crystallized and, seizing Alice’s hand, she cried, “Run, my lady. ’Tis a trap!”

Mr. Funk leaped in front of them and Miss Fadden drove her fist straight into his nose and sent him reeling.

“Stop!” cried a loud, compelling voice from the door and a shot was fired over both women’s heads.

Shaking with fear, they turned about.

Mr. Bessant stood on the doorstep with a brace of horse pistols leveled at them.