This person was speedily followed by half a dozen others, some of whom carried flambeaux. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. . . ‘Tell me, my boy. ‘I thought it was his great-nephew, young Brewis Charvill, who is his heir. All we have to apprehend is a rescue.
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