The Talisman Ring

hat frightened her a good deal more than she liked.

She was seated in the parlour, waiting for Ludovic, who was dressing, to come downstairs, when the mail-coach from London arrived. She heard it draw up outside the inn, but paid no attention to it, for it was a daily occurrence, and the coach only stopped at the Red Lion to change horses. But a minute or two later Clem put his head into the room, and said, his face as white as his shirt: ‘It’s the Runners, miss!’

Eustacie’s embroidery-frame slipped out of her hands. She gazed at Clem in horror, and stammered: ‘The B-Bow Street Runners?’

‘Yes, miss, I’m telling you! And there’s Mr Ludovic trapped upstairs, and Mr Nye not in!’ said Clem, wringing his hands.

Eustacie pulled herself together. ‘He must instantly go into the cellar. I will talk to the Runners while you take him there.’

‘It’s too late, miss! Whoever it was sent them knew about the cellars, for there’s one of them standing over the backstairs at this very moment! I never knew they was even on the coach till they come walking into the place, as bold as brass!’

‘They may be searching the house now!’ exclaimed Eustacie in sudden alarm. ‘You should not have left them! Oh dear, do you think my cousin will shoot them? If he does we must bury them quickly, before anyone knows!’

‘No, no, miss, it ain’t as bad as that yet! What they wants is to see Mr Nye. They daren’t go searching the place afore ever they tell him what they’re here for. They think I’ve gone to look for him, but what I’ve got to do is to hide the young master, and lordy, lordy, how can I get upstairs without them knowing when one of ’em’s lounging round the backstairs, and t’other sitting in the coffee-room?’

‘Go immediately, and find Nye!’ ordered Eustacie. ‘He must think of a way. I will talk to these Runners, and if I can I will coax the one in the coffee-room to come into the parlour.’

With this praiseworthy resolve in mind, and an uncomfortable feeling of panic in her breast, she sailed forth from the parlour and made her way to the coffee-room. Here, at a table in the middle of the room which commanded a view of the staircase and the front door, was seated a stockily-built individual in a blue coat and a wide-brimmed hat, casually glancing over the contents of a folded journal, which he had extricated from one capacious pocket. Eustacie, surveying him from the open doorway, noticed that his figure was on the portly side, a circumstance which afforded her a certain amount of satisfaction, since it seemed improbable that a stout, middle-aged man would have much hope of catching Ludovic if that young gentleman were forced to take to his heels.

Summoning up a smile, and a look of inquiry, Eustacie said, as though startled: ‘Oh! Why, who are you?’

The Bow Street officer looked up, and finding that he was being addressed by a young and enchantingly pretty female, laid the journal down upon the table and rose to his feet. He touched his hat, and said that he was wishful to see the landlord.

‘But yes, of course!’ said Eustacie. ‘You have come on the mail-coach, sans doute, and you want a drink! I understand!’

By this time the Runner had assimilated the fact that she was not English. He did not care for foreigners, but her instant grasp of his most pressing need inclined him to regard her with less disapproval than he might otherwise have done. He did not precisely admit that he wanted a drink, but he said that it was a very cold, raw day to be sure, and waited hopefully to see what she would do about it.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and it is, moreover, very draughty in a coach. I think you ought to have some cognac.’

The Runner thought so too. He had not wanted to come down to Sussex on what would probably turn out to be a wild-goose chase. He felt gloomily that he would not have been chosen for the task if the authorities over him had set much store by the information lodged with them, for he was not at the moment in very good odour at Bow Street. Such epithets as Blockhead and Blunderer had been used in connection with his last case, since when he had not been employed upon any very important business. In his more optimistic moments he dreamed rosily of the glory attaching to the capture of so desperate a character as Ludovic Lavenham, but when his throat was dry and his fingers chilled he did not feel optimistic.

‘When Nye comes he must at once give you some cognac,’ announced Eustacie. ‘But I do not understand what you are doing here and you have not told me who you are.’

The Runner was not much acquainted with the Quality, but it did occur to him that it was a little unusual for young ladies to address strange men in public coffee-rooms. He bent a penetrating and severe eye upon her, and replied, awe-inspiringly, that he was an Officer of the Law.

Eustacie at once clasped her hands together, and cried: ‘I thought you were! Are you perhaps a Bow Street Runner?’

The Runner was accustomed to having his identity discovered with fear, or even loathing, but he had not till now encountered anyone who became ecstatic upon learning his dread profession. He admitted that he was a Runner, but looked so suspiciously at Eustacie that she made haste to explain that in France they had no such people, which was the reason why she was so particularly anxious to meet one.

When she mentioned France the Runner’s brow cleared. The French, what with their guillotines and one thing and another, were the worst kind of foreigners, and it was no use being surprised at them behaving queerly. They were born that way; there wasn’t any sense in them; and the silly habit they had of holding that everyone was equal accounted for this young lady speaking so friendly to a mere Bow Street Runner.

‘You are one of the famous Runners!’ said Eustacie, regarding him with rapt admiration. ‘You must be very brave and clever!’

The Runner coughed rather self-consciously, and murmured something inarticulate. He had not previously given the matter much thought, but now the lady came to mention it he realized that he was rather a brave man.

‘What is your name?’ inquired Eustacie. ‘And why have you come here?’

‘Jeremiah Stubbs, miss,’ said the Runner. ‘I am here in the execution of my dooty.’

Eustacie opened her eyes to their widest extent, and asked breathlessly whether he had come to make an arrest. ‘How I should like to see you make an arrest!’ she said.

Mr Stubbs was not impervious to flattery. He threw out his chest a little, and replied with an indulgent smile that he couldn’t say for certain whether he was going to make an arrest or not.

‘But who?’ demanded Eustacie. ‘Not someone in this inn?’

‘A desprit criminal, missy, that’s the cove I’m after,’ said Mr Stubbs.

Eustacie’s straining ears caught the sound of an opening door upstairs and a light footfall. She said as loudly as she dared: ‘I suppose you, who are a Bow Street Runner, have to capture a great many criminals?’ As she spoke she moved towards the fire, so that to address her Mr Stubbs had to turn slightly, presenting his profile, and no longer his full face to the staircase.