Cyril started to snivel. He crawled to his mother.

"She hit me. She beat me, Mama. I'm bleeding, Mama. Cyril hurt!"

Mrs. Pettibone caught Cyril to the maternal bosom. Fixing Marianne with one last, terrible look, she swept away. She had forgotten Abigail. The child stood with one finger in her mouth for a few seconds; then she scuttled off after her mother.

Reaction left Marianne shaking. She dropped back onto the log. What had she done? Back to London, with its manifold terrors, and the specter of Bagshot hovering over her.

"It was worth it," she said aloud.

"I certainly hope so," said a voice. "I have never seen bridges more thoroughly burned."

After the first quick look, Marianne had completely forgotten the strange gentleman, who had effaced himself behind a tree trunk, from which vantage point he had watched the confrontation with considerable interest. She had thought herself alone; the shock of hearing a stranger made her start. An even greater shock ran through her when the gentleman stepped out from behind the tree, and she recognized him. The Alhambra, the table to the right of the stage, on the last night… She had thought him handsome then – a dark, Byronic hero.

Now all she could think was that Bagshot had tracked her down. Her first mindless instinct was to flee; and she had actually turned, poised for running, before common sense returned. For whither could she flee? There was no refuge nearby. Mrs. Pettibone would be happy to assist any enemy of hers.

Turning back, she faced her adversary, as she thought him. Her chin was high and her shoulders were straight, but the pallor of her face and the terror that darkened her blue eyes were not lost on the man who watched her.

"Return to Mr. Bagshot and tell him to leave me alone," Marianne said. "If he persecutes me, I will proclaim his infamy to the world. There is a law in England to protect the weak and helpless."

The unknown gentleman's lips pursed in a silent whistle. Then he began to laugh. "Good heavens, you are naive, to talk of the protection of the law to a legal practitioner. Never mind; I now perceive your difficulty. It arises, I assure you, from a misapprehension. So Mr. Bagshot is connected with your sudden disappearance, is he? I need not ask how; his pursuits are notorious." Then, seeing that Marianne's anxiety prevented her from following his meaning, he added, slowly and clearly, "I do not know Mr. Bagshot personally. I am not in his employ. He did not send me to find you. I am acting for another person, who wishes only to help and protect you. Will you allow me to take you to that person?"

Marianne eyed him distrustfully, and after a moment he went on, "Here is my card. If you like, I will drive you to the house of your friend, Mrs. Shortbody; she has seen my credentials and will assure you that I am respectable."

Marianne took the card he held out to her. The name, Roger Carlton, meant nothing to her; but there is something inherently conventional about a printed name and a calling card. Somewhat reassured, though far from convinced, she began walking toward the house. Carlton followed.

"I see no reason why I should trust you," she said. "Once in your carriage…"

He grinned and twirled a nonexistent mustache.

"…I will whip up the horses and carry you off to a fate worse than death! My dear young lady, it appears to me that you have no option but to trust me."

They neared the house. As if in emphatic punctuation of Carlton's last comment, the front door opened and Marianne's portmanteau landed with a thud on the steps. It was followed by a rain of miscellaneous garments.

Marianne let out a shriek of indignation and began to run. Grinning more broadly, Carlton went after her. He was amused to observe that the threat of damage to her wardrobe could arouse a female even more than a threat to her person. He had sobered, however, by the time they reached the house, and when Mrs. Pettibone appeared, her arms full of Marianne's property, he spoke sternly.

"One moment, madam! I am this lady's attorney, and I assure you that you are accountable in law for any damage to her belongings. She must be given time to pack them and remove them."

Mrs. Pettibone, who had been on the verge of tossing the remainder of Marianne's things onto the steps, was visibly affected by this reference to the law. She looked so foolish standing there with her arms loaded down like a slovenly housemaid that Marianne almost laughed.

Mr. Carlton took out his watch and glanced at it. "One hour," he said.

It did not take Marianne as long as that.

She was as anxious to leave as Mrs. Pettibone was to be rid of her. Carlton stayed with her while she gathered up her possessions and good-naturedly helped her carry her boxes out. No one else offered to do so.

Waiting on the circle before the house was a carriage. It was the most elegant equipage Marianne had ever seen, drawn by a pair of matched gray horses whose coats shone like satin. The carriage itself was varnished to a high degree, and painted a rich but subdued green. On the door was a gilded and enameled coat of arms.

The sight of the carriage stopped Marianne for a moment. Mrs. Jay's tutelage had not emphasized the ancient and honorable art of heraldry, so she was unable to read the charges on the shield; but upon seeing the coronet emblazoned above, she realized it could not belong to a mere "Honorable." So, with the dismal feeling that the last bridge had indeed been burned, she allowed herself to be helped into the coach. When Carlton asked if she wished to be driven to Mrs. Shortbody's, she replied wearily, "What difference does it make? Take me where you will."

Carlton shook his head in exasperation. "How very dramatic you are! Well, I refuse to drive any distance with a quivering, nervous female who may burst into hysterical screams at the slightest provocation. Here – Wilkins…" The coachman, having stowed away Marianne's boxes, came to the door of the carriage, his hat in his hand. "Sir?" he said.

"Are you familiar with the Honorable Percival Bagshot?" Carlton asked.

"Now sir," was the reproachful reply, "you know us don't associate with such as he. Her Grace would never -"

"That will do," Carlton interrupted. "Well, Miss Ransom?"

Marianne was too vexed at his insulting comments to appreciate his efforts to reassure her. "Proceed, sir," she said haughtily. "Only spare me your conversation during the drive and I will endure what befalls me."

Her companion looked as if he wished to slam the carriage door, but the coachman performed that office and then mounted the box. They were off; and despite her lingering apprehension Marianne could not help feeling relieved at seeing the last of Pettibone Manor.

Carlton observed her request to the letter. He did not utter a word, and although there were many questions Marianne wanted to ask, pride prevented her from beginning a conversation. Her nervousness increased as the city closed in around them. The dirt and grime, the pinched faces of beggars, and the raucous, vulgar shouts of street vendors brought back only too vividly the scenes from which she had fled.

After the usual delays the carriage left the teeming streets and turned into a drive flanked by high stone columns. No house was visible, only clusters of tall chimneys lifting up over the tops of the evergreens that lined the drive.

Though the Ransom family was of good blood, they and their country neighbors had no claim to noble titles or great wealth. One really cannot blame Marianne for being aroused to the liveliest feelings of apprehension by the grandeur that surrounded her from the moment the carriage passed between the gilded iron gates. When it stopped before the facade of a mansion so large that its farthest wing was dwarfed by distance, only courage and her newborn sense of fatalism enabled her to accept Carlton's hand and descend from the conveyance.