The Red Derelict. Mitford Bertram

over there, you would have had to slow down and jump off.”

      “Rather. And—oh, my poor bike! It’s past praying for, utterly.”

      “Well, it’s past mending, that’s certain. But—er—of course, you must allow us to make good the loss. As a matter of hard law you need have no scruple about this. It was destroyed on our property by an animal belonging to us, and on a public road.”

      “A public road!” she echoed. “Then I was not trespassing?”

      “No. This is a right-of-way, though I don’t mind admitting that we have often wished it wasn’t,” he added with a smile.

      Inwardly he was puzzling as to who this girl could be. She was aware of his own identity, for she had addressed him by name; but he was absolutely convinced he had never seen her before. She was a handsome girl, too, very handsome. She had a clear, brunette skin, through which the colour would mantle as she grew animated, fine eyes of a light hazel, and an exceedingly attractive smile. In build she was square shouldered and of full outline, and though not exactly tall was of a good height for a woman. She was plainly dressed, but well, in a light blouse and grey bicycle skirt, and her manner was natural and unaffected. Yet with all these attractions Wagram decided that she was just not quite in the same social scale. Who could she be?

      “Oh, but, Mr. Wagram, I’m sure you must be hurt,” she broke in, as he rose from dusting down her bicycle skirt—she had sustained wonderfully little damage, even outwardly, from her fall. “Why, what is this?” catching sight of his ripped waistcoat. “Blood, too! Good heavens! Did it strike you with its horns? Oh, you must get it seen to at once. I have read somewhere that the wound from an animal’s horn is frightfully dangerous.”

      “Well, it wasn’t the horn this time, it was the hoof. But I assure you the thing is a mere scratch; I daresay it might have been worse but for the waistcoat. As it is, it’s nothing.”

      “Really? Seriously, mind?”

      “Seriously. But if you always turn your reading to such practical account as you did just now, it’ll be good for other people all along the line. It was even better than plucky, for it showed a quickness and readiness of resource rare among women, and by no means so widely distributed among men as we like to imagine.”

      “How good of you to say so,” she answered, colouring up with pleasure. “But—oh, what a pity to have had to kill such a curious animal. Will the old Squire be very angry, do you think, Mr. Wagram?”

      “He will be sorry; but you must credit him with a higher estimate of the sanctity of human life for anger to enter his mind in this connection. I am sure he will feel only too thankful that a most disastrous accident has been averted.”

      “Oh, I am relieved. Poor thing,” she broke off, standing over the dead gnu with a little shudder at the pool of blood which had trickled from the small hole made by the bullet. “It is very ugly, though.”

      “Yes; it’s a sort of combination of goat and buffalo, and horse and donkey, to all outward appearance. Ah, here’s someone at last,” as two men approached. “Here, Perrin,” to the foremost, “how on earth did this fellow break out of the west park? Are the palings broken down anywhere?”

      “Not as I knows on, sir,” replied the man, who was an under keeper. “I was round there myself this morning, and ’twas all right then. Reckon he must ha’ jumped. Them things do jump terrible high at times. Be you hurt, sir?” with a look at the other’s torn clothing.

      “No; only a scratch. But this young lady might have been killed. You’d better go to the village at once and let Bowles know there’s a butchering job here for him, and the sooner he sets about it the better, or the light won’t last. Oh, and on the way tell Hood to go over now and make sure there are no gaps or weak places in the palings, or we shall have more of the things getting out I should never have believed one would have taken that leap.”

      “Very good, sir,” replied the keeper, turning away to carry out his orders.

      The girl, meanwhile, was watching Wagram with a whole-souled but half-furtive admiration, not undashed with a little awe. The fact of her rescue by this man in a moment of ghastly peril, and at considerable risk to himself, appealed to her less than did the cool, matter-of-fact way in which he stood there issuing his orders, as though no life-and-death struggle between himself and a powerful and infuriated animal had just taken place. Moreover, there was something in the way in which he gave his orders—as it were, the way of one to whom such direction was bound as by right to belong—that impressed her, and that vividly. Perhaps, too, the unconscious refinement of the man—a natural refinement characterising not only his appearance, but his manner, the tone of his voice, his every word—came especially home to her, possibly by virtue of contrast. Anyhow, it was there, and she hardly had time to disguise the growing admiration in her eyes as he turned to her again.

      “Will you walk on with me to the Court and have a rest and some tea? We can send you home in the brougham.”

      For a moment she hesitated. The invitation was wholly alluring, but to herself a perfectly unaccountable resolve came over her to decline it. It is just possible that the one word “send” had turned the scale. Had he offered to accompany her home she would probably have accepted with an alacrity needing some disguise.

      “Oh no, thanks; I could not think of intruding upon you like that,” she answered. “I live just outside Bassingham, and a mere three-mile walk is nothing on a lovely evening like this.”

      “Are you sure you are doing what you would prefer?” he urged.

      “Quite. Oh, Mr. Wagram, how can I thank you enough? Why, but for you I should be in as many pieces as my poor bicycle.”

      “And but for you, possibly, so should I,” he laughed.

      “Yes; only you would not have been there at all but for me, so that I am still all on the debtor’s side,” she rejoined, flashing up at him a very winning smile.

      “Will you favour me with your address—here,” holding out a pocket-book open at a blank leaf. “And—er—you seem to have the advantage of me as to name.”

      “Have I? Why, so I have,” (writing). Then handing it back he read:

      “Delia Calmour, Siege House, Bassingham.”

      “Oh, you live in Bassingham, then?” he said, in a tone which seemed to her to express surprise at never having seen her before.

      “Yes; but I have been away for two years,” she answered in implied explanation which was certainly not accidental. “I have only just come home.”

      She hoped he would question her further; but he did not.

      “Good-bye, Mr. Wagram,” putting forth her hand with a bright smile. “I shall return by the main road. It’s much shorter—besides, I’ve had enough adventure for one afternoon.”

      “Well, if you won’t reconsider my suggestion.”

      “Thanks, no; I had really better get back.”

      “And,” he supplemented, “again let me remind you that the utter wreck of your bicycle is our affair. Oh, and by the way—er—in case you are put out by the want of it even for a day or two in this splendid weather, Warren, in Bassingham, keeps very good machines on hire—you understand, our affair of course. I will send him in word the first thing in the morning.”

      “Now, Mr. Wagram, you are really too good,” she protested with real warmth. “I don’t know whether I ought even to think of taking you at your word.”

      “Ought? But of course you must. It’s a matter, as I said before, of hard, dry law, and damage. Good-bye.”

      They had reached the gate by this time, and closing it behind her, Wagram raised his hat and turned back to where lay the dead gnu. Then, as the men he had sent for had arrived, and he had given directions as